Bleeding Love
by paundromat
Summary: Hemophilia: a disease that impairs the clotting ability of blood. Kurt's a hemophiliac; Blaine's a hardworking hospital volunteer. When Blaine donates blood for the first time, their two worlds come crashing together. AU. Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**READ ME****: Er...I've been listening to 'Somewhere Only We Know' nonstop. It's beautiful. **

** Here's my first try at anything vaguely serious—if you've ever read my previous work ("Welcome to the Bright Lights", "Tastes Like Success", "A Hair Nightmare"), you know that I have a propensity toward the sillier things in life. But I really wanted to write a hospitalcentric!fic, where Kurt has a sickness and Blaine's a hospital volunteer. **

** After MUCH research via WebMD, Red Cross, medical journals, and my mother (who is indeed a practicing doctor), I decided to write a story about hemophilia, a relatively rare genetic disorder.**

** This fic is AU, but it takes place in Lima and Westerville and all that jazz. Kurt and Blaine have never met before. Since it's my first AU fic, I'd like as much constructive criticism as possible.**

**DISCLAIMER****: I don't own Glee. **

.:|:.

"**HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 1**

Before we begin, there's something you need to know.

There's always been something special about Kurt Hummel. Not in that devastatingly simple way, that kind of way that involves how well the boy can _sing_, or how well the boy can _dress himself_.

And don't get me wrong—he's special for those reasons, as well. Because Kurt's got this amazing countertenor voice that soars above everyone else's, and he's managed to obtain some of the most eccentrically gorgeous pieces of clothing ever made by anyone, ever. Kurt's got these amazingly long legs that he likes to accentuate with cigarette-thin skinny jeans, hair that sweeps up a clear three inches from the roots, and, oh yeah, his arms are pretty toned, too.

Kurt's flamboyantly gay. But that's all just a kind of technicality—he likes boys, finds them attractive and so much more worth it than any old half-baked floozy.

Unfortunately, that's _still_ not that special something that I'm talking about.

Because ever since he went to the dentist for the first time at the tender age of four and wound up in a hospital room with blood flowing freely from his gums, Kurt's been known to have a certain disease called _hemophilia_.

Do you know what that is, reader?

Okay. So there's supposedly a specific way of describing the disease he has (well, Kurt seems to think so). That way's complicated and scientific. It involves Punnet squares and sex-linked genes and mutations. Kurt knows that he got the recessive gene from his mother, who didn't actually happen to have hemophilia—her genes just happened to function as carriers for the gene.

Hemophilia occurs almost exclusively in males.

Which is not only extremely ironic, but also where our story begins.

Kurt's a junior at McKinley High. He's walking down the hallway minding his own business, just like any other member of the McKinley High student body.

"Nice _dress_, Lady-Face!"

And then Kurt gets yet another Slushie in the face and is forced to shuffle off into the _girls'_ bathroom to wash it off, flanked by his best friend, a vivacious and bodacious girl named Mercedes.

It's ironic because Kurt's clearly demonstrated his male-ness. He's definitely got a penis. He's definitely got an Adam's apple. He's definitely gotten a disease that mostly only males get. But these Neanderthals insist upon calling him things like 'lady' and 'fancy'.

Hemophilia is, in short, a bleeding disorder. Kurt's blood doesn't have the proper blood clotting factors in his system, the same factors that help stop the blood flow after you get a paper cut, or keep the purple color of a bruise from spreading all throughout your body. Which is exactly where the dentist incident came in—young Kurt had come in, expecting a quick check-up and maybe a small Fudgesicle when all was said and done.

He'd come out with blood everywhere and was rushed to the hospital. Dr. Paulsen, a kindhearted, slender woman, had been kind about running a few blood tests, and had told a very young Kurt all about the rare disease that he had inherited from his mother's side of the family.

Dr. Paulsen had instructed Kurt to maintain an active lifestyle through activities involving low to no contact, which eliminated his father's dreams of his little boy growing up to become an all-star football player (not that Kurt was ever particularly interested in _that_). Kurt's hemophilia required that Kurt steer clear of and falls, sprains, or strains. Anything that could result in bleeding, four-year-old Kurt was told, had to be avoided.

And Dr. Paulsen had told Kurt about the clotting factors, and how he'd have to get infusions of the stuff every once and a while to keep his blood in check. She had given Kurt's parents some fibrin glue to help treat minor skin injuries.

The Hummels were sent off on their merry way armed with an array of medical pamphlets and hemophilia treatments.

That day, little Kurt had learned his blood type. He was a type AB, which meant that he'd have to find other type ABs to get his clotting factors from.

Outstanding, his father, Burt, had thought. How many type ABs were in Lima, Ohio? And how many were active participants of blood drives, anyway?

"That doesn't worry you at all, Doctor?" Burt had asked, scratching at the skin underneath his baseball cap. "How Kurt'll only be able to get his blood—sorry, I mean clotting factors—from type ABs?"

"Not at all, Mr. Hummel," Dr. Paulsen had replied confidently. "There'll always be plenty of blood drives, and we can always get clotting factors shipped in from the city. We can even get it shipped in across state lines. And you can actually obtain synthesized clotting factors nowadays. Kurt will be just fine—just so long as you take care of him properly."

That had pacified Kurt's parents.

Still, Kurt's hemophilia provided him with at least one benefit.

The largely homophobic bullies at school? They couldn't touch him. Not because the thought of touching a gay person disgusted them, no. Because if they rammed Kurt up against a locker, or tossed him into the dumpster like they did with everyone else, he'd most likely bleed out. They'd get expelled.

Plus, most of them were totally freaked out by the idea of blood. Just saying.

Right now, Kurt's pretty horrified because he can feel the purple flecks of Slushie dripping down his cheeks and into his pores.

Oh, yeah. Kurt spends an ungodly amount of time making sure his skin is absolutely flawless. Even though he's got bruises peppering his sides more often than not, Kurt spends at least an hour daily slathering on creams and moisturizers and generally being as vain as he wanted.

Because what the hell, he's totally got a right to do that.

"This is so stupid," Kurt grumbles, toweling off his face with the soft terry-cloth towel he keeps folded up in his Marc Jacobs messenger bag. "Karofsky and Azimio figured out a way to terrorize me without having to hit me or anything."

Mercedes leans over and brushes ice off of her best friend's hair. "Be glad that you're not bleeding out in the hallway, white boy."

Kurt blows a raspberry and scoffs. "Please, Merce, I'm a little bit stronger than _that."_

Mercedes quirks a judgemental eyebrow up at him.

"Although..." Kurt says, thoughtfully pulling out a tube of face wash from his bag, "I _do_ have a doctor's appointment today."

Mercedes' eyes light up. "You got any bruises? I know how much you've been wanting to visit Dr. Paulsen without any of 'em."

Because Kurt does. He feels like showing up at a doctor's appointment looking completely normal would make him feel like he was winning some sort of battle, even though winning against hemophilia's completely impossible.

Kurt nods his head sadly, leaning over closer to Mercedes and pulling up the front of his sweater. "Check this one out," he says, pointing to a large purple splotch that stretches across his side. "But if it makes any difference, this is the only one. I can just break out the Bobbi Brown and conceal it, probably."

Mercedes touches the bruises gently and then retracts her hand from Kurt's skin. "Nah, I'd suggest leaving it as is. It looks pretty painful."

Kurt frowns, because really, it doesn't hurt any more than it should.

.:|:.

"Happy seventeenth birthday, Blaine!" Wes exclaims, pounding his best friend on the back. "We all know you've been waiting for this moment—you're finally a mature wizard. It's about damn time, you know."

Blaine tries to give Wes' shoulder a good wallop, he's stopped when he gets smothered with yet another hug (damn his short stature!), this time from David. "My baby's getting so _old_!" he exclaims, jumping back from Blaine and then adjusting his tie with as much dignity as he could muster. He reaches over and promptly grabs a shiny, wrapped present. "And of course, what's a proper birthday without any presents?"

"Hey, thanks man," Blaine responds, taking hold of the present and untying the ribbon deftly. "You guys really didn't need to get me anything—"

"Shush," Wes says. "You're ruining the moment."

"Yeah, Blaine," Thad calls from the other end of the senior commons. "So shut up and open the gift already!"

It's a set of five new guitar picks and a cellophane-wrapped package of five reams of blank sheet music. There's a small blister package of spare guitar strings, all coiled together, held to the paper with a bright blue rubber band. Blaine's face lights up immediately. "Thanks, guys!" he says, tearing open the pack of guitar picks and examining each one of them closely.

"We thought that getting you a musical birthday present was only fitting," David explains. "We—" he motions to the room filled with students clad in navy-and-blue uniforms "—pooled our money to get you a little something-something for the big one-seven, eh, boys?"

A chorus of "rights!" and "totally!" rings throughout the Senior Commons.

Blaine's face breaks into a wide grin again. "Well, thanks again, guys. I really appreciate the gesture." He holds up the ream of paper. "I don't even want to know which one of you guys was the psychic who knew I needed more blank sheets."

"We raided your drawers," Nick explains with an easy smile.

"So what are you going to do first?" asks Matt, looking up at Blaine with ice-blue eyes. "Cast spells? Apparate to Las Vegas?"

"Great fat lot that'll do," Jeff snorts. "He's not yet twenty-one."

"Why all the Harry Potter references?" Blaine asks, tucking the package of guitar strings into the pocket of his blazer.

Wes shrugs. "Nothing much that's special about being seventeen. It's not like sixteen or eighteen, you know. Only thing that's cool about being seventeen is the wizard aspect of it."

There an awkward silence, and then:

"So you're not apparating to Vegas, then?" Matt reiterates slowly.

Blaine looks at his friends sheepishly. "Actually, no. I was just about to go down to Lima Memorial."

A few things you should know about Blaine: he's gay, and proud of it. He's got a beautiful, strong mother named Evangeline who is completely comfortable with her son's sexuality, and a serious, businessman father who is not as thrilled. Regardless, Blaine's parents are pretty accepting of his homosexuality, just like Blaine thinks they should be.

Blaine volunteers at Lima Memorial Hospital for service hours. He works various booths and sings with the children and reads Steinbeck novels to the old people. He strums his guitar to accompany the singers at hospital Mass service and ladles steaming chicken casserole into the trays of patients during lunchtime.

Sometimes he sits at the informational booths for the yearly Lima Memorial Blood Drive. He passes out pamphlets and informs the general public, even though he's never gotten his blood drawn for donating.

"Lima Memorial? Lima Memorial the _hospital_?" Wes asks, a furrow appearing in his brow.

"Well," Blaine trails off, searching for the right words. "The blood drive's happening right now."

David looks just as confused as Wes. "So...?"

"I'm finally seventeen," Blaine explains, "which means that I can actually donate blood instead of, you know. Educating people about it. And I've been preparing for today for _ages_."

"Gone through your screenings and everything, then?" Jeff asks with a teasing grin. "Guess you don't have HIV, then."

"Sadly, my life is not a suburban production of RENT," Blaine responds smoothly. "I meet all the requirements, though. I'm now at least seventeen, I weigh more than one-hundred-and-ten pounds, and I'm in good health."

"That explains that weird health kick you've been on lately," Wes muses, resting his elbow on David's shoulder. "You've been trying to keep your body as fit as possible for your first blood-donating experience."

Blaine laughs. "I'm a type AB—that means I'm a hot commodity. All of these blood drives have been dying to get some of this." He motions to his body demonstratively.

Reader, if you didn't know, type ABs are regarded as universal blood acceptors. That means that all of the other blood types—A, B, AB, and other Os—are accepted by type ABs for transfusions. Unfortunately, there are some factors and variables working into the method. Sometimes ABs only accept ABs. Which makes Blaine invaluable—there's simply not enough AB blood going around for other ABs.

Type ABs like Kurt.

But let's not get ahead of our story—after all, Blaine has yet to actually _meet_ Kurt Hummel.

"I suppose you're not scared of needles, then," Matt adds.

Blaine frowns. "Being scared of needles is for babies," he mutters childishly.

Wes and David roll their eyes in unison and push Blaine towards the big, arched doors of the Senior Commons. "Come on, to your car you go. Don't want to keep them sexy male nurses waiting."

Thad chuckles and says, "Go on, let's not deprive the world of some fresh Anderson blood, shall we?"

Blaine's lucky, see.

His friends accept him.

.:|:.

Blaine's heart is pumping like mad when he pulls his Lexus up to the parking lot of Lima General and turns the key in the ignition. It's almost as if the fates are screwing with him—_let's try and give Blaine a heart attack before he can actually get to the donating blood part_.

"Courage," he mutters to himself, slipping his Dalton blazer off and draping it across the driver's seat. Blaine opens the car door and slides his keys back into his pocket. "C'mon, Blaine, courage."

"Blaine!" Ashley, one of his close nurse friends, cries from her desk as he enters the hospital. The little bells attached to the top of the doorframe jingle merrily as he opens the door. "Are you ready for this?"

Ashley's one of those eternally smiling people, with bright aqua hospital scrubs and perky violet glasses perched on her nose almost as an afterthought. She wears those bright purple nurse clogs only on days when she's menstruating—she says that they help with the back pain. On normal days, though, Ashley prefers to don simple white Keds, because she thinks they're the least offensive kind of stereotypical nurse footwear.

Blaine wholeheartedly agrees.

He's told Ashley about his blood donation idea before, and they'd been keeping a countdown calendar for the past month. Strange to say, but Blaine and Ashley had bonded over the blood drive. They were overzealous. They made the entire ordeal seem so much more grandiose than what it actually was.

"I think so. I'm pretty nervous," Blaine admits. "I mean, I know that it'll just be like having blood drawn normally, but..."

Ashley adjusts the placement of her glasses. "But what?"

"What if my blood isn't right? What if they end up tossing it because it's weirdly contaminated with some obscure virus or something? What if I had hepatitis as a kid, and I was never told about it?"

"Are you kidding me, Blaine?" Ashley asks. "I ran those tests to the lab myself. I'm pretty sure you're normal. Plus, you're not running a temperature or anything. And your urine is ridiculously normal. Totally average. It's kind of disappointing, actually."

Blaine screws his face up in mock disappointment. "Oh, I know. It's not green or purple or anything."

Ashley looks up at Blaine with a smile on her face and then tilts her head down so that she can examine her clipboard. "Alright, Blaine. In all seriousness, you'll have to go to room 120-B to get the actual blood drawn."

"Who'll draw the blood?" Blaine asks curiously. "Anyone I know?"

Ashley scrutinizes her clipboard carefully. "Dr. Jennie Paulsen. Short hair that's brown? She's got a sarcastic streak, but she's very intelligent."

Blaine recognizes the name. "Oh, Jennie. Yeah. Thanks, 'Shley."

There's a beat of silence followed by the shrill ringing of the telephone.

"No problem, Blaine," Ashley replies, picking up the phone from its cradle and resting it in between her shoulder and her ear. "Oh, and don't call me that. Don't call me 'Shley."

.:|:.

The next hour and a half is nerve-wracking for Blaine. He undergoes another physical and stays seated in the funny black chair for half an hour as Dr. Paulsen putters around with the sterilizing wipes and the syringe.

"Don't doubt my skills," Paulsen scoffs derisively as she examines Blaine's health record.

Ashley steps into the room after about fifteen minutes to chat with Blaine. Dr. Paulsen seems to be taking her sweet time, and Ashley manages to keep Blaine occupied. She swabs the junction of his elbow crease with stuff that she says will numb the skin—Dr. Paulsen seems slightly amused by this (apparently, it doesn't really help).

Then the thick rubber band is pulled over his arm and, quick as a pinch, Dr. Paulsen inserts the needle. Blaine hardly feels anything. Instead, he leans back in his chair, watching as more and more scarlet fluid collects in the little bag, inflating like an eerie balloon.

"There's one pint of certified top-grade AB positive," Paulsen says, removing the needle after a few seconds and tossing it into the disposal bin. She slides the band off of Blaine's forearm and is about to reach for a sterilized Band-Aid when Ashley sweeps by with a neon pink one.

"It's an inside joke," she explains, expertly sticking it onto Blaine's arm. Blaine's truthfully feeling a little woozy, and only manages a slight chuckle. Dr. Paulsen shrugs and scrutinizes the face of her watch.

"Well, Blaine, I'm on break now. We've got some refreshments up in the cafeteria that you've got to consume, anyway—your body needs to adjust to the blood loss."

"Yeah," Blaine agrees, standing up from the chair and staring at the pink bandage stuck to his arm. Ashley pats him on the shoulder and drags him out of the room.

Dr. Paulsen follows close behind them.

"Tell me about yourself, Blaine," she says once she, Blaine, and Ashley are sitting at a table in the cafeteria. Blaine's arm is curled around a glass of orange juice and he's currently chewing on an oatmeal raisin cookie.

There's something open about Dr. Paulsen. He likes her.

.:|:.

Later in the afternoon, Dr. Paulsen turns around and snaps her latex gloves on with a small smile on her face.

"Afternoon, Kurt. Before we begin, shall I ask what the good patient's wearing today?"

Another thing that's worth noting:

Kurt's grown up with Dr. Paulsen acting as a mother figure. They've got an odd sort of friendship going. Kurt always asks Dr. Paulsen about her weekend plans. Dr. Paulsen always asks Kurt about his outfits. They've managed to find common interests, which is great—Kurt really does _trust_ Dr. Paulsen with his life. Dr. Paulsen's never had any kids of his own—she and her husband were widely known to be childless—but she treats Kurt like her own son.

"Nothing too over-the-top today, madam," Kurt says, spinning around for Dr. Paulsen to get a feel for the outfit. "Just some good old-fashioned Marc and the rest is completely off-the-rack." He gestures to his messenger bag. "This piece was hell to find."

Dr. Paulsen looks at the bag and nods in what Kurt supposes is approval.

"Oh, and a McQueen scarf, of course," Kurt adds with a low chuckle, tapping at the loose, filmy fabric that was wound around his neck.

"Very nice," Paulsen acknowledges with an approving nod. "So how've you been lately? You haven't bled at all, have you?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No. I do have some minor bruising, though." He lifts up his shirt to show the doctor. "It's nothing too major, though."

"Well, up onto the examination table," Dr. Paulsen says, rolling out a new sheet of protective paper over the table and patting it. "Up you go, then."

Kurt ambles up until he's perched daintily on the tabletop.

Dr. Paulsen runs some of the obligatory tests. She listens to Kurt's heartbeat and takes his blood pressure. She knocks on Kurt's knees gently with little rubber mallets and checks his throat for any infections. All clear.

"So have you been taking your medication?" Dr. Paulsen asks, scribbling down Kurt's vitals onto a notepad. "You've done really well in the past three weeks, Kurt."

Kurt beams proudly. "I have. Actually, I'm almost out." He reaches for his bag and extracts a plastic tube of pills. He shakes it—it's empty.

"Well, I'll just prescribe another batch for you...taken once a day, of course..." Dr. Paulsen looks up from her inked-in chicken scratch. "So are you all set for your clotting factor infusion, Kurt?"

Patients with hemophilia, like Kurt, have to be treated to doses of clotting factors given intravenously. Kurt often spends the night at Lima Memorial, resting in a hospital bed as clotting factors are pumped into his system. It's not as horrible as you'd think—it gives Kurt a lot of time to relax, and he gets to watch reruns of _Project Runway_ when he gets bored.

"Has getting blood been easy lately?" Kurt inquires, picking at his nails absentmindedly. "I know that type AB is pretty scarce around these parts."

"It's funny you should ask that," Dr. Paulsen says thoughtfully. "We just got a new blood donor in today. Young man, probably around your age. He's a type AB, too."

Kurt's mouth gapes. "Really? Must be a guy into helping patients out."

"He's a pretty frequent volunteer, actually. What was his name again...? Something like Blaise...Blaire...Blaine. Yes, that's it. Blaine." Dr. Paulsen snaps the cap back onto her pen. "He attends Dalton Academy, in Westerville."

"Huh. Westerville to Lima. Must be quite the trek," Kurt marvels.

Honestly, Kurt's impressed with the dedication of this Blaine guy.

"We're still running tests on this guy's blood, but who knows? Maybe he'll be your blood reservoir in the future. We can derive your clotting factors from his blood." Dr. Paulsen says in a weak attempt at humor. "Word on the street is that he's gay, too. And he's a nice guy. I'll ask him to swing by your room tonight. How 'bout it?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Very funny, Doctor. Don't try to set me up with guys. It's not going to work. And can you imagine how creepy it'd be to share blood with your significant other?"

"I actually find it kind of romantic," Dr. Paulsen admits.

Kurt shudders. "No."

Dr. Paulsen gives Kurt a warm, sparkling laugh. "If you're worried about kissing, I assure you that it takes a lot to get someone to bleed in the mouth...you'd seriously have to bite down pretty har—"

"Dr. Paulsen!"

Oh, yeah. Dr. Paulsen is definitely comfortable with Kurt's sexuality.

.:|:.

It's not until Kurt's hooked up to an I.V. loaded up with clotting factors that he sees a curly-headed young man enter the room. He's got on a stark white collared shirt and gray slacks—definitely a private school boy. The boy's hair is gelled down in small waves, and his eyebrows, Kurt thinks, are absolutely ridiculous in their thickness and darkness. But there's a certain friendliness about the boy's big hazel eyes and his wide, bright grin.

Kurt's drowsy, but he manages to keep his eyes open long enough to smile and weakly wave at the guy.

"Hey, there. I'm Blaine. You must be Kurt," Blaine says, pulling a stool away from the wall and up to Kurt's bed. He promptly sat himself down.

Kurt scrutinizes Blaine, noticing a bright pink bandage pressed up against the back of his elbow on his left arm, where the sleeve is rolled up. He tries to ignore the rather attractive shape of this boy's (Blaine, he tells himself. The guy's name is Blaine.) arm, but fails miserably.

"I'm Kurt," he says softly. He pointed at Blaine's arm weakly. "What's with the band-aid?"

"Gave blood earlier today," Blaine replies proudly, tapping at the bandage with his index finger. "And I just happen to really love the color pink."

Kurt hums in recognition. "Oh. Dr. Paulsen was just telling me about you. Type AB, right?"

Blaine nods. "Ah...yes. Type AB."

"So you volunteer here?"

"Most of the time," Blaine says. "I like it around here. The energy is great and...gee, I'm not really sure...I just like making people smile, you know?" He flashes a particularly charming smile of his own at Kurt, who feels his insides squirm a little bit uncomfortably. His stomach does a somersault.

"I've got hemophilia," Kurt blurts out suddenly. "I'm a type AB, too."

"Really?" Blaine's eyes squint a little bit at the corners as he grins at Kurt (his smile, reader, is ridiculously infectious). "We can be blood-brothers, then, huh?"

"Hm? Oh, sure, kind of. We could be, I mean." Kurt says, lifting the hand that's currently got a needle stuck in it. There's gauze and cotton wrapped around it to catch any blood if an accident happens. "If I wasn't so worried about cutting myself and accidentally bleeding to death."

Blaine looks concerned, but says nothing.

Kurt takes that as an opportunity to change the subject. "So what were you thinking of doing here with me?"

Blaine shrugs. "Just...talking. Normally I sing with the kids, but you're not a kid, so..." He pauses. "I'm talking myself into circles, really." He rests his hands on his knees. "Tell me about yourself."

"Wait. You sing?" Kurt asks, backpedaling and avoiding the question. "Are you a member of the Warblers?"

Blaine winks at Kurt conspiratorially and Kurt thinks he can feel his brain oozing out of his ear. "How did you know that I go to Dalton?"

"Dr. Paulsen told me," Kurt explains simply.

"Jennie's your doctor, too?" Blaine flexes his arms experimentally, pleased to find that the odd, weak sensation is his arm had disappeared. "Well, yes. I am in fact a Warbler."

Kurt turns that concept over in his head and then gives Blaine a disdainful look. "Not to be rude, but..." His voice drops down low, like a whisper. "...are you any good?"

"What, are you on a rival glee club? Think we're going to give you a run for your money?" Blaine teases with a knowing smirk.

Kurt instantly turns red as a tomato. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'm in my school's glee club. Ever heard of the McKinley High New Directions?"

Blaine raises those exceedingly thick eyebrows expressively. "Oh, wow. I suppose we do share a common interest—singing."

"Would you look at that," Kurt says with a weak laugh. "We've got three things in common now: our blood types, our passion for singing, and our sexuali—I mean, two things." His voice goes even lower as he mutters to himself as a reminder, "Only two things." He's mentally slapping himself for bringing up the rumors of Blaine's homosexuality.

"Hm?" Blaine asks with an easy smile. "What was that?"

"Nothing!"

Blaine pats Kurt on the shoulder gently. "Hey, don't worry about it. Look, I brought my guitar. We can sing something together, if you'd like."

Kurt accepts, because really, who is he to turn down this extremely attractive boy in front of him? The guy's benevolent, too.

_ Douche bags_, Kurt thinks wildly to himself as Blaine sprints out of the room to grab his guitar from his Lexus, _they don't donate blood to the needy. They just don't._

When Blaine runs back in with a guitar case in hand, Kurt decides right then and there that he really likes this kid, this Blaine. Blaine with the weird eyebrows and the helmet-head and the mysteriously pink bandage plastered onto his arm.

Because the first thing that Blaine plays is Katy Perry, and Kurt _really_ can't handle that.

As he strums lazily on the guitar strings, Blaine shoots a comforting smile at Kurt. "Here, I know what we'll do," he says, pausing in his ministrations for a few seconds. "I'll play and you sing."

Kurt stares at him, shell-shocked.

But Blaine just keeps grinning at him, playing on that pale, wooden guitar. And Kurt can't help himself.

"_Before you met me, I was alright, but things were kinda heavy...you brought me to life; now every February, will you be my Valentine?"_

.:|:.

**A/N****: So...what's the verdict? Should I continue? Don't forget to review! :)**

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	2. Chapter 2

**READ ME: Here you go, loveys!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.**

.:|:.

"**HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 2**

When Blaine gets back to Dalton, it's like he's seeing the world in a different perspective.

He's quite possibly given someone else another chance at life.

He remembers the day his younger sister, Elise, had fallen into the uneven brick pavement on one of her visits to Dalton Academy. She had punctured a pretty large vein in her knee, and she had been rushed to Mount Carmel Saint Anne's Hospital. By the time she had arrived, she had lost so much blood that she had needed to get a blood transfusion.

Blaine recalls just sitting at her bedside, watching Elise's small form lying on the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV drip.

He can fool himself and other people by saying that he's volunteering at Lima Memorial just for the service hours. He's been a member of the National Honors Society at Dalton for all three years he's been attending, and community service is definitely required. Besides, it never looks bad on college applications.

Blaine wants to be a lawyer. He wants to power through the colleges on the East Coast. For him, it's the Ivies or bust.

But honestly, Blaine does the service for Elise. Really, he does it for anyone at the hospital who needs the blood.

Some philosophers wax poetic about the meaning of life, and the stuff that life runs on. Blaine's had a teacher who's stated that life runs on some sort of cosmic juice. Blaine's sophomore biology teacher liked to practically write sonnets about entropy, how the universe runs on its own disorderliness.

Blaine disagrees.

He knows that life—_human_ life, anyway—he knows that it runs on blood.

Before leaving Lima Memorial with his acoustic guitar in tow, Blaine had managed to get his paws on Kurt's cell phone number. He's now sitting in his dorm room, dressed only in loose drawstring sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt, turning his phone over and over again in his hands.

What should he tell Kurt?

"Kurt's got quite the voice," Blaine says to the darkness, feeling the blood whooshing around in his ears.

He pulls his phone up to eye level, flipping the keyboard open and pressing his warm thumbs against the keys.

Blaine pulls a blanket over himself. It's a chilly November evening.

"Courage," he murmurs, to no one in particular.

.:|:.

"Well," Kurt says, extracting a quart of milk from the humming refrigerator. "I can never say it enough. Thanks for driving me, Finn."

Finn rubs his head, a sheepish grin appearing on his face. "Well, uh," he replies, taking another bite of his lasagna, "No problem, dude."

Kurt frowns. He hates being called a dude.

He supposes it's not much worse than being called a lady, or a fancy, or, you know. A _fag_.

Even though Finn's been known to let words like that fly from his mouth every so often.

Kurt pours himself a glass of skim milk and seats himself at the dining room table across from Finn, who is wolfing down his pasta like a marathon runner. Cracking open the pages of the latest issue of Vogue, Kurt sighs, sips at his drink, and crosses one leg over the other.

"Still," Kurt insists, flipping through the advertisements that are congregated at the beginning of his magazine, "I kept you in after dinnertime. You could have gone out of Lima Memorial and eaten at...oh, I don't know. Where would you have gone?"

Finn shrugs wordlessly, chasing a mouthful of lasagna down with some milk. He swallows noisily. "Uh...Taco Bell? I totally love Taco Bell."

Kurt rolls his eyes.

His phone buzzes on the table.

"Text message, dude," Finn says. "Dude, you just got a text message."

When Kurt opens the text message, he smiles widely. He's just about to tap out a wittily-worded reply when Finn screeches himself out of his chair and clanks his plate and fork into the kitchen sink. The harsh sounds ring in Kurt's ears.

"Who's it from?" Finn asks conversationally, grabbing a banana and peeling it methodically.

Kurt looks up, the alarm showing in his face. "Oh, no one in particular." He jerks his head back down and quickly types out a timely response.

Finn quirks an eyebrow at Kurt. "Hey, look, I know it's not really in my place to say anything about this, but..."

"It's not anyone _bad_, Finn. It's not Azimio, or, God forbid, Karofsky," Kurt replies defensively. He downs another mouthful of milk.

There's a sound of padding footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Hey, uh, Kurt? What's all this about text messages?" Burt Hummel's

voice is tired, but serious. The intensity of his glare matches that of his son's. Burt turns and nods approvingly at Finn. "Hey, kid. Thanks for driving Kurt around today. I appreciate it."

Finn gives Burt a close-mouthed smile, swallowing another bite of banana. "No problem, Burt."

Kurt gives his father a hard smile. "Dad, it's not anyone bad, it's just this kid I met at Lima Memoria—"

"Who?" Now Burt's eyes are more curious than threatening. "Who'd you meet, Kurt?"

"A volunteer," Kurt says innocently. "Named Blaine. He goes to Dalton Academy in Westerville. He works at the hospital and he's just become a blood donor."

Burt hums, nodding to himself. "I see. He, uh...he play for your team?"

Finn nearly chokes on his mouthful of banana.

Kurt's eyes widen in alarm. "My gaydar's been known to be horrendously inaccurate. Like a dollar store pregnancy test, actually." He closes his eyes and thinks of Sam, the beach-blond transfer student. Kurt had thought he was gay, but now Sam's all about making out with Quinn Fabray in the choir room during free period.

Burt frowns and dismisses Kurt's previous statement. "Look, Kurt. I'm treading pretty dangerous water here—I'm not exactly sure what to ask you. I think I've definitely got the right to, uh. To, uh, ask these sorts of questions." He clears his throat. "He play for your team?"

Kurt's been thinking a lot about relationships, actually. About how much he wants to be in one, how lonely he's been feeling. His father had just recently married the love of his life, Carole Hudson, less than a month ago. When Kurt was younger, right after his mother's fatal car crash, he had thought that his dad would never remarry. He had thought that the simple memory of his mother, the brighter-than-blood, vivacious Elizabeth, was enough to keep Burt Hummel happy.

Then his crush on Finn Hudson happened.

Here's something else you should have picked up on about Kurt: he's pretty impulsive. And Kurt, as some sort of straight-boy-attracting mechanism, had set up his father with Finn's widowed mother.

Kurt finds it the most ironic that while he's an excellent matchmaker, he can't find love himself for shit.

As an answer to his father's question, Kurt manages to force out a reasonable, "Status unknown."

"You do know what it means if he does," Burt says, mouth pursed. "So I'd recommend finding out soon, sport."

Kurt sighs audibly. "Dad, if I do, you will most _definitely_ be the first one to know."

.:|:.

The next time Kurt sees Blaine, it's at the Lima Bean. Kurt's just finished school, and he's getting ready to hunker down with the book he's reading for English, _Anna Karenina_, when he hears the familiar tinkle of the coffee shop door opening and sees the familiar head of hair.

It's still gelled down, hard as a rock, only this time Blaine's got his Dalton Academy blazer on. Kurt scrutinizes the design of the blazer and concedes that while it puts forth a valiant effort, the bright scarlet piping reminds him too much of fresh blood flowing through a catheter.

Blaine walks up to the cash register and orders his coffee from the perky barista. He pulls out a worn brown wallet and slides a ten-dollar bill over the table top. "Keep the change," Kurt sees him mouth.

Kurt can't help but feel a little bit intrusive. His eyes never leave Blaine, and he can feel his face turning red. Would Blaine be weirded out if he...?

"Kurt!" Blaine says, eyes lighting up warmly in recognition. He practically hops over to the couch where Kurt is seated, Tolstoy and mocha perched primly on his knees. "I almost didn't see you there."

Kurt smiles wanly, taking a sip of nonfat mocha and examining the brightness of Blaine's hazel eyes. So open, so lovely.

Blaine grins and looks down at the novel perched on Kurt's lap. He places his hand on it hesitantly, glances back up at Kurt, and takes it, reads the cover (there's a picture of a beautiful woman in a burgundy gown on the front), and nods. "Tolstoy?" he asks Kurt, carefully wedging the book back between Kurt's knee and elbow.

Kurt releases a heavy sigh. "English class," he explains, and he and Blaine share an equally depressed look.

Kurt clears his throat. "I mean, it's actually got a great storyline, but the book is just so long...and Tolstoy has a tendency of making things go by way too slowly."

Blaine gives Kurt a hard laugh. "Plus everyone's running around cheating on their husbands and wives and it's..."

"Complicated?" Kurt supplies for Blaine, reaching over to pull a chunk of blueberry scone from the brown paper bag sitting on the coffee table. Blaine reciprocates, unwrapping his piece of orange-hazelnut biscotti from the crinkling plastic and swirling it around in his medium drip.

"So you go to Dalton Academy?" Kurt asks offhandedly, chewing on the scone slowly. "What's it like?"

Blaine concentrates, puffing his cheeks out (adorably, Kurt thinks wildly to himself) and blowing air out of his mouth. "It's, ah...it's different from all of the other schools in Ohio. It's open and confining at the same time...it's almost like..."

Kurt nods encouragingly. "Like...?"

"It's like you can be yourself just so long as you still conform to the rules. But the students at Dalton are all united by their love of learning; I suppose we're all misfits in that sense," Blaine finishes.

"And what about the Warblers, then?"

Blaine smiles. "What I love the most about Dalton is its affection for us performers. The students who aren't involved with the Warblers treat us like...well, kind of like rock stars. It's incredibly humbling."

Kurt leans over and stiffly pats Blaine on the hand with an understanding, almost condescending look. "Are you a backup tenor? Or a baritone?"

Blaine pauses and gives Kurt a funny look. There's a beat of silence that passes—Kurt purses his lips and sips at more nonfat mocha, Blaine chomps noisily on more hazelnut biscotti.

Heaving a great sigh, Blaine pushes on his knees and straightens himself in his chair. He blinks once, twice, three times.

Kurt loses count.

"I, uh, I actually sing lead. For uh, you know. The Warblers," Blaine mumbles through another swig of medium drip.

For a moment, Kurt just sits there, feeling his stupid, too-thin blood flooding his face. He feels the jolt of coldness running down his spine, the sting of embarrassment. The knowledge that he had been overly confident, overly condescending. Overly judgemental, since he had thought that he and Blaine shared something, that something being an intrinsic lack of solos. But he had thought—

Blaine pats his hand against Kurt's kneecap. "Hey. It's alright," he says with another bat of those furiously long eyelashes. "Why don't you tell me about McKinley?"

Kurt clears his throat quietly and sways back and forth in his seat. "I...can I...ask you a question?"

"Anything," Blaine replies earnestly.

"How does Dalton...how do the Dalton boys handle gays?"

Blaine sits and stares at Kurt, and suddenly, things start making sense again.

"Well," Blaine starts, plopping his drink down onto the table and pressing his palms flat against one another. "The official policy is that of no-harassment, regardless of race, gender, origin, religion, sexuality, or any other factors."

Kurt raises both of his eyebrows. "But...?"

"We actually have sensitivity _seminars_," Blaine says wryly. "They help with the freshmen—most of them aren't used to seeing people that are different. Unique, you know? But they learn to love and accept everyone else with time."

"It's one hell of a lot better than what we've got at McKinley," Kurt responds, thinking of Karofsky and the sting of his blue raspberry Slushie.

"You know, Kurt, tolerance isn't something that's built in a day," Blaine says philosophically. "People feel threatened, or confused. It's not anything different from what we felt when we came out of the closet."

Kurt's eyes go wide as saucers as he leans in towards Blaine's body, so close that he can perceive the beginnings of dark stubble along his jawline. He pretends that the sight doesn't make his stomach all fluttery. "You mean...you're—?"

"Gay?" Blaine questions smoothly. "Yes. We're a definite minority at Dalton, but people are pretty accepting of us. Most of my Warbler friends are straight, with girlfriends, though."

"O-oh," Kurt manages to stutter out.

"So I take it you're having trouble at school?" Blaine asks, hoping that he isn't overstepping his boundaries too much. Hoping that he isn't making Kurt feel too uncomfortable.

Kurt lets out a harsh breath. "Not really. Well...it's more psychological than anything," he replies dryly. "My condition as a hemophiliac prevents most of those Neanderthals from hitting me too hard."

"They're more empathetic than you think they are, then?" Blaine suggests.

"Not really," Kurt says. "They verbally abuse me, throw Slushies at me. Give me rude phone calls. Try to key my car. I think the only reason they don't just push me up against a locker and leave me there to bleed out and die is their need to stay on the football team."

"Ah," Blaine replies flatly. "I suppose that keeps them pretty anchored."

Kurt feels the walls breaking down inside of him. He suddenly feels like he can tell Blaine e_verything_ without being judged, without being discriminated against.

It scares the shit out of him.

"I..." Kurt says before his voice falters. "They...just walk around, bullying me. And _no one_..." He takes a ragged breath. "No one seems to notice. Not particularly. I mean, I'll get a few friends sympathizing, worrying about me. But they don't do anything. And I'm not sure...I'm not sure what to do."

Blaine presses his warm palm into Kurt's shoulder serenely. "I know what you're going through, Kurt. Because the same thing happened at my old school." He waits, watching the understanding blossom in Kurt's expression. "And I filed complaints with the teachers, and they were sympathetic and all, but...you could tell that they really didn't _care_, you know?"

Kurt hums darkly and adds, "They seem to think that being tortured is just another side effect of being gay."

Blaine nods. "Exactly."

"So what did you do?"

Blaine lowers his head and looks at Kurt through his long, thick lashes. "This isn't something I'm proud of, Kurt."

Kurt shakes his head rapidly. "It's not that...I just want to try to keep my options open here."

"I ran," Blaine says simply, reaching for his empty coffee cup and balling up the cellophane wrapper of his biscotti. "Listen, Kurt. I've got to go—the only reason I'm even here in Lima is to volunteer at Lima Memorial."

Kurt masks his disappointment with a wide smile. "Oh."

Blaine stands up and tugs his blazer back into place, running his hands along the perfect creases and pushing his tie into perfect position. Kurt's mesmerized. "Do you volunteer at Lima Memorial?" Blaine asks him with a quirk of those thick brows.

Kurt shakes his head ruefully. "I'm just a patient, unfortunately." He fingers the dogtag hanging around his neck, the one with all of his medical information written on it in case of an emergency. "Just a patient."

"Oh. Well, you should definitely try volunteering one of these days," Blaine says with a charismatic smile. "It's more rewarding than it seems."

Reader, for the first time in his life, Kurt truly thought about helping another person just like him.

The last time he had ever truly _helped_ someone was when his father had had that heart attack in September; Kurt remembers that feeling of satisfaction he had received every time he boiled up a pot of chicken and watercress soup for Burt.

Kurt presses his sweaty palms into the fabric of his Armani Exchange skinnies. "When can I start?" he asks Blaine.

.:|:.

It turns out that Kurt can start whenever, which is why he finds himself taking the shotgun seat of Blaine's champagne-colored Lexus. Light streams in through the tinted windows of the car, and Kurt automatically reaches into his messenger bag to pull out his Ray-Bans.

He tries not to laugh his brains out when Blaine reaches into the eyeglass compartment of his car and pulls out a pair of dark sunglasses thickly rimmed in bright pink plastic. Blaine notices the funny look that Kurt's aiming at him; in response, he turns his head towards Kurt and smiles devilishly.

Kurt can feel the butterflies in his stomach having some sort of mosh pit in there as Blaine pulls out of the Lima Bean's parking lot and drives out onto the road in the direction of the hospital.

"It doesn't seem like so long since your last visit, huh?" Blaine inquires conversationally, leaning over to adjust the positioning of his rearview mirror. Kurt shakes his head no.

Then a thought crosses his mind.

"Blaine?" he pipes up, folding his hands together over his lap. "Can I ask you something?"

Blaine's eyes never leave the road, but he nods and replies with an enthusiastic, "Sure!"

Kurt's eyes stray to the toes of his boots and his throat feels funny, but he manages to force out, "How is it that you can donate blood if you're gay?"

It surprises Kurt when Blaine leans over to adjust the heating setting of his car and tells him, "Actually, Lima Memorial has a set of criteria that donors have to meet in order to give blood, and gay...gay virgins are definitely game for donation."

Kurt chews that thought over. "Really?"

Blaine shrugs. "I read over the booklet with that nurse, Ashley. If I was sexually active—actually, if I ever had sex after 1977 with another male—then I'd be at risk for AIDS. And that's when I wouldn't be able to give blood."

Kurt hums in understanding.

"Besides," Blaine says, a little ruefully. "I haven't even had a _boyfriend_ yet. I mean, I've been on _dates_, but..."

Holding a hand up immediately, Kurt blurts out, "Don't need to know. Sorry."

Blaine chuckles to himself and flicks his left turn signal on so that he can turn into the parking lot of the hospital. "You know that people with fresh tattoos are deferred? I never knew about that until I read the handbook."

Kurt shakes his head, and Blaine drives the car into a parking spot with deft precision. He leans over to pat Kurt's hand, and looks up into Kurt's face. "Hop off," he says, releasing Kurt from his seatbelt.

The seatbelt slides off of Kurt's body easily, and Kurt thinks to himself that Blaine's hand lingers on his waist for a little bit too long. Regardless, Kurt scrapes up the sense to step off the vehicle, and Blaine, pocketing his car keys, soon follows.

Blaine leads Kurt to a small, colorful room scattered all over with small wooden blocks and demented-looking Barbie dolls. Kurt tries not to scoff at the poor condition of the plastic tiaras that litter the floor, while Blaine strides over to a familiar-looking nurse in purple shoes. She's carrying three or so sanitary napkins and she looks about ready to throttle a small baby.

"Hey, Ashley," Blaine says, staring at the maxipads, and then the purple shoes. "Menstruating?"

Ashley shudders and scowls at Blaine. "Don't even try to talk to me."

Kurt lets out a sigh. "_Women_," he says, with absolutely no sympathy whatsoever.

Ashley rolls her eyes and jabs a finger in Kurt's direction. "Who's your friend?"

"Ashley," Blaine says, pushing Kurt in her direction. "This is Kurt. He's a patient here and he wants to try his hand at volunteering."

Ashley flashes a smile—her first smile of the day, really—at the tall boy with the vibrant blue eyes and the impeccable fashion sense. "Kurt, huh?" she asks warmly, patting her hand on his shoulder firmly and steering him out of the pediatric ward.

"Where're you taking him?" Blaine asks warily, struggling to keep up with Ashley's long, purposeful strides.

Ashley looks over her shoulder to Blaine, then back to Kurt. "He's a hemophiliac—you probably know that already—and I recognize him from a few weeks ago," she explains. "He's got first-hand experience here at the hospital. I figure he can help in the waiting room. Play with a few babies, talk with a few parents. Whatever."

Blaine laughs at Ashley's collected nonchalance. "May I join him in the noble endeavor, Ash-Bash?"

Ashley stops for a moment to consider the proposition. "Do you have your acoustic guitar with you?"

Blaine steals a glance at Kurt, who's all wide eyes and pursed lips, and then directs his attention back to Ashley. "Yes?" he says, his affirmation sounding like a question.

Ashley nods emphatically. "Then you _may._"

.:|:.

One day after volunteering at Lima Memorial with Kurt for the first time, Blaine receives a particularly desperate phone call from the boy in question that makes his insides feel like too-runny gelatin and his head feel like it's being pounded with a slab of solid brick.

"B-Blaine?" Kurt's delicate voice fills Blaine's ears through the earpiece of his Blackberry. "Karofsky...the Neanderthal..h-he..."

_Kissed Kurt_, that's what fills Blaine's cloudy mind as he rips a jacket from the coat rack propped against the wall of Dalton's West Wing and strides out to his car. He's too mad to even acknowledge the alliteration he's got going there, because, holy shit.

_Karofsky. Kissed. Kurt._

.:|:.

**A/N: Don't forget to **_**review/story alert/favorite**_**! Your reviews make my day so much better. Love you all.**

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	3. Chapter 3

**READ ME:**** It's FRIDAY, FRIDAY...I had to edit the timeline of canon (which is alright, since this is AU...). Instead of Blaine confronting Karofsky a day or two after the Kiss Incident, I had him confront him the day of, which actually makes more sense to me. **

**DISCLAIMER:**** ...and I don't own Glee. **

"**HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 3**

.:|:.

The day before it happens, Kurt's finishing his reading for _A Tree Grows In Brooklyn_, and he figures that his situation is eerily similar to that of Francie Nolan once he gets to the end of the book. He had gotten it off of Amazon for one cent, with the obligatory five dollars in shipping-and-handling, and the page had been folded down, but once he had pried it from within itself and smoothed open the stained paper, his eyes had been immediately drawn to Francie's distraught words.

_"No! I don't want to need anybody. I want someone to need _me_...I want someone to need me_."

What did that mean, he wonders to himself, idly turning the page and biting at the back of his pen, an old nervous habit of his.

He thinks of that hospital volunteer Blaine Anderson with the pale acoustic guitar and the waxy hair and the bright, crooked smile. Blaine Anderson with the hot pink bandage pressed at the junction of his bicep and forearm and the striped Dalton tie.

Does Kurt need Blaine?

No, he decides firmly. He doesn't need anybody.

.:|:.

That had been Tuesday.

It's Wednesday now, and Kurt's still pressed up against the brick pillar outside of McKinley with his car keys growing slippery in his sweaty palms. His lips are kiss-stung and he feels like they should be swollen, like he _should_ be bleeding out on the floor because that _Neanderthal's_ teeth had scraped ever so lightly against the inner part of his lip—

"Blaine?" Kurt asks, noticing a familiar Lexus pulling into the parking spot nearest to his Navigator. His hopes are confirmed when Blaine steps out of the car, dressed in his impeccable Dalton Academy uniform, with spit-shined leather dress shoes on his feet.

Some small part of Kurt's brain registers that he approves of Blaine's fresh-from-school dapperness.

He approves a lot.

"Kurt," Blaine begins, brow wrinkled and face obviously full of worry. "Are you okay? Is Karof—I mean, is Karofsky still here?"

Kurt smiles listlessly and drifts down the steps until he's face-to-face with Blaine. "I'm...fine," he replies wanly, pressing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Just...confused. And a little bit disgusted."

That gets Blaine's attention, and Kurt can't help but let out a dry laugh when his face screws up in misunderstanding. "Disgusted, Kurt? Why would you be disgusted?"

"He tasted like old pepperoni," Kurt admits in a small voice. He lets out an airy chuckle and presses a warm hand to Blaine's shoulder. "I'm glad you came, though."

Blaine shrugs and sets his hand on top of Kurt's. "I'm just missing AP PoliSci. Don't worry about it."

Kurt's mouths opens in a small _O_ when he hears about Blaine's Political Science course. To him it sounds foreign and enticing; it's a class that isn't offered by McKinley. McKinley, Kurt thinks to himself wryly, only offers AP French, Physics, and American History. The administration seems to have thrown the College Board to hell.

Kurt and Blaine stand there, on the steps of McKinley, hand over hand, until the lunch bell rings and students begin to mill about the campus with brown bag lunches and plastic bins of salad in their hands.

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Blaine asks, even though he knows that, oh yes. He's _going_ to be confronting this Karofsky guy.

"No?" Kurt replies, but he knows that Blaine's worried sick and isn't going to listen to him. "Look, Blaine. I'm trying to be honest here. Your advice was maybe not so great."

"_Courage_ was maybe not so great," Blaine interjects softly.

"It's not your fault, so you don't have to confront anyone. Just stay. With me." Kurt's eyes are earnest, but the damage has been done.

Blaine's going to approach Karofsky, point-blank, no questions asked.

"I can't," Blaine whispers.

"Just stay here. We'll have lunch," Kurt suggests. "They make salad here. If we get to the cafeteria early enough, there won't be any traces of old Fruit Gushers in the lettuce."

Blaine opens his mouth to ask, "What _is_ this place?", but refrains.

Instead, he says, "Where does Karofsky eat his lunch?"

.:|:.

Kurt takes Blaine by the hand and leads him up the stairs and into a few corridors—Blaine is amazed at all of the lockers, since Dalton is a boarding school and doesn't have any—before taking a sharp turn left and scurrying down the west stairwell. Blaine's beginning to think that Kurt's purposely making the trip long and complicated with no intent of actually finding the boy named Dave Karofsky, but when they bump into a footballer with biceps the size of grapefruits and a violently red letterman jacket, Blaine knows that Kurt had some semblance of premeditated direction.

Blaine pulls Kurt away from Dave protectively, but Kurt shoots him a scathing look and steps forward so that he's in the line of combat with Blaine. When Blaine clears his throat loudly, Karofsky whips around and, catching Kurt's eye, lets an expression of fear cross his face.

When he notices Blaine, there's an instant sneer, though.

"This your boyfriend, Hummel?" Dave asks, nodding his head in Blaine's direction. Karofsky's mouth is caught up in limbo of a snarl, and Kurt swears that his eyebrows are even more arched than usual.

"Kurt told me what you did," Blaine says, skirting around the question. Kurt presses his lips together in a tight line and manages a jerky nod.

That gets Karofsky's attention.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, trying to keep the wildness of his eyes in check. "And what was that?"

"You _kissed me_," Kurt reminds him, voice choking up a little bit in the back of his throat.

Dave's gaze flickers from Kurt to Blaine: Kurt's got his messenger bag pressed up against his chest protectively, and Blaine's standing there with an air of confidence that Dave absolutely _despises_. Who gave the Dalton fancy the right to prance around spreading his fairy dust all over the school?

There's something you need to understand, reader. David Paul Karofsky's not entirely heartless.

But he's scared.

Is he gay? Dave doesn't know. He admits that there are times when he finds the swing of the Hummel kid's hips particularly alluring, or the curve of Sam Evans' backside interesting. Has he jinxed himself into liking males?

Dave pictures himself wearing one of the ridiculous outfits that Kurt seems to live in, and almost lets out a sob mixed in with a harsh laugh.

Instead, he settles for a pseudo-innocent, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Kurt's face pales immediately. There are thoughts swirling around in his head, now—thoughts so confusing that he doesn't even register the next few words tumbling from Blaine's lips. Something about _being confused_ and _totally normal_ and _coming to terms with_ and being _not alone_. He doesn't catch Karofsky's response to Blaine's little sermon, either, because when he's finally brought back down to earth, Karofsky's got Blaine shoved up against the wall, and Blaine's hands are thrown upward.

Blaine hadn't been expecting a shove from Karofsky.

He also hadn't been expecting Kurt to completely jump the gun, _damn his hemophilia_, and push Karofsky off.

"You have to stop this!" Kurt cries, gasping in the air, because he honestly feels like he can't breathe.

Karofsky makes a motion as if to strike Kurt, but then he lowers his arm and retreats down the stairwell, eyes to the floor.

"You do know he has a _chronic medical condition_, right?" Blaine shouts angrily down the stairs. "And that every time you dumpster toss him, no matter how gently you do it, you're risking his life?"

"Blaine," Kurt warns.

"I suppose you don't!" Blaine continues, even though he knows there's no way Karofsky can still hear him. "I really...I suppose you _don't_."

When he looks away from the mouth of the stairs, he finds that Kurt has sidled over to the lowermost step, messenger bag pooled on the ground next to him and tears rapidly forming in his eyes.

"Well, he's not coming out any time soon," Blaine says in a weak attempt at humor. Kurt looks up at him, eyes shiny and wet with tears, and Blaine immediately wishes that he could take it back. He adds in an amending, "What's wrong? Why are you so upset?", and then plops himself down on the step next to Kurt.

Kurt takes in a deep breath and replies, "He knows about the hemophilia, Blaine. I told you. Everyone knows." His voice has that cloudy, muddy quality of a person holding back tears, and Blaine reaches over hesitantly to rub soothing circles on the small of his back.

"I got mad," Blaine admits simply.

"It doesn't change the fact that he would stab me with the nib of his BIC pen if it meant getting me to bleed out for good."

Blaine winces. "Don't say things like that. But I want to know. What's _really_ bothering you?"

"It's because," Kurt murmurs, breath hitching in between the two syllables of _because_, "Because up until today, I had never been kissed."

"Kurt—" Blaine says, but he's cut off by Kurt swallowing loudly and continuing.

"Or at least...not one that counted."

They sit there in silence, the warmth of Blaine's hands somehow traveling through the fleece of Kurt's thick peacoat (how the Hummel family pays for his hospital bills _and_ wardrobe, Blaine will never know) and Kurt trying to hold in the tears (he's mostly over the shock now, and Blaine's helping him cope tremendously—now he doesn't want to waste his tears on something that can't be helped).

"Come on," Blaine says. "I'll buy you lunch."

.:|:.

There's always a rainbow after a rainstorm, that much Kurt is sure.

"Come on, Finn," he says, rolling his eyes as he pours a generous amount of skim milk into his cereal. "Don't be a wimp."

Finn's gray t-shirt is stained and his hair is a mess. "Dude, _no_. I can't. Stop bugging me about it. I can't."

"For the record," Rachel says, storming into Hummel kitchen with her arms crossed, "I find that what Kurt is asking of you is particularly noble."

"Really?" Finn says, seeming to consider it. "No."

Kurt frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. "Pourquoi, mon frère?"

Finn isn't really sure what Kurt's saying. "Dude, look, I don't understand Spanish, or Chinese, or whatever language it is you're speaking—"

"French," Rachel supplies, nodding firmly.

"French. Okay? Whatever, French. Look, I'm not even sure what you want from me—"

Kurt laughs drolly and plunks his spoon back into his cereal bowl. "How can you not understand the question?"

Finn makes a sweeping motion with his too-big hands. "Okay, so Lima Memorial is having a _blood drive_."

Kurt nods in mock encouragement. "Very _good_, Finn!" he says with a few sarcastic claps of the hand.

The chair next to Kurt emits a large squeak as Rachel Berry slides it out so she can perch her tiny, polyester-clad self on it. "You see, seeing as you're Kurt's older brother now, I believe that becoming a blood donor is definitely a crucial step in your acceptance of his status as a hemophiliac."

"I mean," Kurt amends, "Not that I would particularly desire to have _your_ blood flowing about my system, but I'm sure there are plenty of people who would be just fine. After all, the donation process is kept anonymous."

Finn saws away at the pork sausage on his plate petulantly. "I don't know why you're asking me. Why don't you ask _Rachel_?"

"Can't," Rachel says with a dazzling smile. "I'm too young. And I might carry some Jewish disease, you never know."

Kurt's glare shoots daggers at Rachel. "That last excuse was a cop-out."

"_Okay_," Finn says, feeling particularly scared of Kurt's apparently vindictive wrath, "What does this...blood donating-thingie entail?"

"A physical," Kurt says innocently. "And a pint of your blood extracted from your system via a needle, a catheter, and a plastic baggy."

Finn winces. "Ew."

"It's an ew that saves lives," Rachel articulates grandly.

"Why don't you ask anyone else in the Glee club?" Finn presses on.

Kurt lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Santana, Brittany, and Puck probably carry more STDs than anyone at McKinley," he says. "Besides, Puck just recently got a tattoo, so he's deferred. Tina, Mercedes, and Rachel are too young. Quinn's had hepatitis before, and so has Mike Chang. Asking Mr. Schue would be weird, and Miss Pillsbury is most likely deathly afraid of needles. Sam...I don't know him well enough."

"Coach Sylvester?" Finn suggests weakly.

"I'm afraid her blood is too valuable to be spilled for the sake of saving the lives of innocents," Kurt deadpans.

Rachel huffs a sigh and sidles up to Finn with a manipulative smile on her face. She stands on tiptoe and whispers something into her boyfriend's ear, causing his expression to become hazy and unfocused—Kurt doesn't want to _know_ which act of sexual slavery Rachel Berry was promising to his stepbrother, but he's definitely glad that Rachel cares enough to actually cajole Finn into donating blood to Lima Memorial.

"I'll do it," Finn says quickly. "But I want to know why you're asking me to."

Kurt looks up, a blank expression on his face. "Why else? Solidarity purposes, of course."

Finn cocks an eyebrow at Kurt and the corners of his lips turn down in a grimace. "Dude, I know you better than this."

Shrugging, Kurt rattles off, "There'ssomeoneIwantyoutomeetFinn."

Rachel coughs into her fist. "Sorry, what?"

"There's someone. Someone I met at the hospital, and I want Finn to meet him."

"Can I meet him, too, Kurt?" Rachel questions excitedly, a fire lighting up in her eyes immediately. Kurt sighs, but nods in response.

"Really?" Finn says. "Huh. Do I get to know his name?"

A smile ghosts across Kurt's face. "Blaine," is all he says.

.:|:.

"Look, Finn. I'm glad that you came," Rachel says, looping her arm through Finn's lanky one and tugging him through the doors of Lima Memorial. Kurt follows them, shoulder-to-shoulder with a boy that Finn can only assume is that Blaine dude Kurt had been rhapsodizing about.

"It's also great to meet you, Finn," adds Blaine earnestly. His eyes light up in a way that makes Finn feel comfortable—he doesn't have any problems with the guy that Kurt's been mooning over, which is good. "I've heard a lot about you from Kurt." Kurt wrinkles his nose in distaste.

It's also comforting to know that Kurt's moved on past his stepbrother (Finn) and onto much greener, _gayer_ pastures (Blaine).

Finn shrugs. "It's fine, man. How do we get started?"

Kurt and Blaine smile in unison. "We're going to introduce you to our nurse friend," Kurt says proudly. Blaine grins at that—in the past few days, Kurt's become a volunteer regular. He belongs there, now, and the hospital has become more to him than just a place to be hooked up to clotting factors intravenously. Now, the amount of time Kurt spends cleaning up the play room and talking with the elderly on their gurneys exceeds the amount of time he takes up getting treated for his hemophilia.

Both of those amounts of time, however, are completely eclipsed by the number of hours he spends with Blaine; talking, texting, calling, Skyping. Blaine leaving little handwritten notes at Ashley's desk, telling Kurt to meet him at the cafeteria to eat some of Lima Memorial's famous cafeteria food.

Rachel trots after Kurt and Blaine to Ashley's desk, where the nurse in question has her feet propped up and is doodling a diagram of the human venous system next to a pad of doctor's prescriptions.

"What are you doing, Ashley?" Blaine asks, a lilt of a laugh making its way into his question. He props his hand on the wall of Ashley's cubicle and leans downward. "We've got a newbie."

Ashley peers up at Rachel and Finn. "Which one?" she says, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

"The Incredible Hulk," Kurt says, jabbing a finger in Finn's direction. Finn makes a strangled noise, but raises his hand nonetheless.

"That would be me," he mumbles.

"Do you have your papers?" Ashley inquires flatly, snapping the cap back onto her pen.

Finn looks bewildered. "What papers?"

"These papers," Kurt says, sounding exhausted as he pulls out a bright green folder labeled "FINN'S MEDICAL HISTORY".

Ashley winks at Kurt and takes the folder. "Well, Mr—" She takes a moment to examine the folder's contents. "—Mr. Hudson, is it? Come with me. You're going to have to undergo a physical."

"It's one of the benefits of having connections at the hospital," Blaine explains. "We can get you hooked up."

Ashley sighs. "Sadly, he's not even exaggerating."

Kurt, Blaine, and Rachel wait outside while Finn's taken into a room by one of Ashley's colleagues, Jamie. They talk about Glee club (Blaine's set on defeating the New Directions at Sectionals, despite his allegiance to Kurt; Rachel isn't amused and insists on giving Blaine a bit of a vocal sampling in order to intimidate him. Of course, she forces Kurt to harmonize along with her.)

But Kurt has yet to hear Blaine sing.

When Finn and the nurse, Jamie, exit the room, Rachel follows them into another.

"Hold my hand," Finn says to Rachel, as Jamie fits a rubber band over his forearm and rips a clean syringe from a plastic bag.

Rachel takes Finn's large hand in hers and squeezes gently, and Blaine wraps an arm around Kurt's waistline where they're standing at the door.

**A/N****: Please don't forget to add to story alert/favorite if you don't want to miss the new chapters! If you can, drop me a review. Every review makes my heart go whee!**

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	4. Chapter 4

**READ ME****: I'm not even going to state excuses. It took me forever to get this chapter out. I'm promising myself that after posting this chapter, I won't update "Bleeding Love" until I finish "Welcome to the Bright Lights". Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER****: I don't own Glee.**

"**HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 4**

**.:|:.**

Even though two weeks have passed since the day Dave Karofsky had cornered Kurt inside the boys' locker room during free period, Kurt swears he can still feel the blunt pressure of lips against his own, forceful. It might as well have been the heel of a palm rather than a pair of lips, he's sure. And he can still feel the cold sensation of dread that had shot straight through his back when Karofsky had leaned in for _another_ kiss.

The sheer irony's almost too much for Kurt to handle: fancy a boy named Blaine and you get a closeted jock named Dave.

"Hey, Kurt," Ashley says, striding over with a cardboard box in her arms. "You're good with interior decor, correct?"

There's the sound of something that Kurt never fails to hear, the word _decor_ with _interior_ right in front of it, and he's instantly snapped out of his reverie and back into the real world. And the real world has a little nurse named Ashley with thick purple glasses and brown hair that's done in a French braid with a bun at the end, carrying a box full of what seems to be Christmas decorations.

"What's with the box o' baubles?" Kurt asks good-naturedly, leaning over to take the box from Ashley. "For the lobby, I presume?"

Ashley wipes her palms off on her pants and adjusts her glasses. "We've got a bare Christmas tree set up in the front room that has Hummel written all over it." She frowns. "Well, not literally, but you know what I mean. We've got Blaine Warbler driving in from Westerville to help you. He's fresh out of Glee practice—apparently you're all prepping for Sectionals, or something."

Kurt smiles fondly and nods. "There's a bit of friendly competition there, Ashley, not going to lie."

"Don't tell him I told you this," Ashley says conspiratorially, sticking her head in closer so that her mouth is right by Kurt's ear. "But—oh, huh, you smell really good, Kurt—I'm totally rooting for New Directions at Sectionals. Blainers is getting a bit too smarmy for my liking."

Kurt's eyes go positively wide in shock. "Well, Ashley!" he exclaims, voice full of mock disgust as he folds the cardboard box shut and sets it on the desk next to him. "I'm appalled. Blaine will be absolutely disgusted with you."

"Well, don't tell him, would you?" She gives Kurt a gentle (gentle, Ashley, gentle, she reminds herself) bump on the shoulder and lets out a laugh. "Anyway. Fix up the Christmas tree, would you, pumpkin?"

"Your wish is my command, mademoiselle," Kurt says, voice full of pomp and circumstance. "I'll just be waiting for my prince over by the Christmas tree." And his voice is full of a sort of longing that he sincerely hopes Ashley doesn't pick up on, and gladly, she probably doesn't understand—that's because Kurt's become a master of emotion, a paragon of platonic feelings...

Kurt recalls the crush-on-Finn incident from sophomore year, shudders, and decides that maybe he's not so much a master of emotion as someone who feels things through the heart rather than through the skin.

Ashley stifles a giggle. "Your prince's carriage is regrettably slow, sir."

Kurt shrugs offhandedly and jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, indicating that yes, Ashley, you should _definitely_ follow and help with the Christmas ornaments. It isn't as if Lima Memorial's late in hanging up Christmas decorations—the end of November is rapidly approaching, and December tended to creep up on people faster than Kurt could say, "I don't believe in the religious aspect of Christmas, thank you very much."

But in actuality, Kurt's just gotten over the things that happened during Halloween (he still has his Riff Raff wig balled up in the corner of his new bedroom) and Thanksgiving (paper mache turkeys are still making regular appearances in the Hummel household; Kurt had planted them everywhere in order to really get into the spirit of the holiday). And his newfound friendship with Blaine is about to hit the one-month mark—clearly, they had hit it off hard back when Blaine first dropped in to his room while he was receiving a cocktail of clotting factors—so Kurt's pretty lost on the whole Christmas gift aspect of it all. _Is Blaine even into that sort of thing?_ he thinks worriedly.

Kurt remembers that Blaine wore a turkey-printed cardigan for Thanksgiving that was vaguely reminiscent of something pulled directly out of Rachel Berry's closet, and decides that perhaps Blaine really is just into festivities. Blaine's the type to pull out a horrendously orange plastic sled during Ohio's first snow in order to slide down a tiny hill with too much gusto for an outwardly mature high school junior.

Goddammit, now Kurt's never going to get that image out of his head.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Kurt turns to Ashley and asks, "So what's the theme for the Christmas tree this year?"

Ashley pushes open the door for Kurt, who's got his arms full of baubles, and says, "Normally we just kind of slap them onto the Christmas tree. I assume you'd have a better plan than that."

"Yes, I don't normally condone any sort of ornamentation without pre-planning, especially since I—_Blaine_!"

And there he is, dapper as ever in his striped scarf and Dalton uniform, little white flecks of snow embedded into his usual gelled hair. Kurt has to lean over and brush the snowflakes off, since he finds their appearance a little bit too much akin to that of dandruff. Regardless, Blaine's looking like an excitable snow angel.

"Hey, Kurt—today's the first snowfall for Ohio, if you haven't noticed, sorry about all the snow—I didn't expect that you'd be here," Blaine says warmly, wrapping both Kurt and Ashley into a tight bear hug. Kurt can't help but press himself into the embrace a bit more firmly than Ashley does, and he's so close that he can vaguely perceive Blaine's heartbeat. Then Ashley shoots a warning look over Blaine's shoulder and Kurt's forced to retreat, albeit bashfully, back to his spot by the Christmas tree. "Ah, Lima Memorial is notorious for being exceedingly early in the completion of their Christmas decorations."

"You're awfully chipper today," Ashley says blankly.

"Why wouldn't I be? Sectionals are fast approaching and—_hey_, are those ornaments?"

Blaine reaches out to grab a frosty blue ornament, but Ashley bats his hand away. "Wait, Blaine, Kurt hasn't decided on a color scheme."

Blaine raises an eyebrow at Kurt questioningly. "We're doing a theme this year?"

Kurt smiles smugly. "I was thinking we could do a little bit of an homage to the blood patients here at the hospital and go with a red theme." He pauses and seems to ponder that idea. "I know it might seem a little bit morose, but..."

"Christmas trees are always red," Ashley objects. "So it can be more of a taste thing than a morbid thing, you know?"

"That's true," Blaine says, nodding his head in agreement. "And we can do some tinsel."

"More brassy than silver, though," Kurt muses, and he realizes that they must be making quite a sight in the hospital lobby. A prep school boy, a nurse, and a kid in pseudo-bondage gear all huddled around a bare pine tree with contemplative looks upon their faces and a box of Christmas ornaments open at their feet.

Speaking of feet, Kurt remembers to duck his head down to see which variation of the classy dress shoe Blaine's wearing today. There's his own inky-black 18-hole Doc Martens, Ashley's purple nurse clogs, and then Blaine's charcoal gray Derbies that really should _not_ go with the Dalton uniform as well as they do. And that's when Kurt realizes that Blaine's simply too good at everything, and that's something that makes his heart hurt. It's warm, though, and at that point he's past the point of no return and he's tugging Blaine down to the ornament box, telling him, "Pick out the red ones, I'll be right back. I'm going to run and pick up some brass tinsel."

"Do they even sell brass tinsel?" Ashley wonders aloud, getting down on the floor and sifting through the baubles with Blaine beside her.

Kurt shifts out of his crouching position till he's standing upright again. "I've got Rubbermaid bins of tinsel in the trunk of my car for my glee club's sectionals costumes—don't ask, but the girls wanted tinsel in their hair—but I got surplus of the brass and silver kind because I thought they were fabulous."

"Oh," Ashley says. "That's..."

"Handy," Blaine supplies quickly. "Go grab the tinsel, Ashley and I will start on the tree." He picks out a miniature ruby-red slipper on an ornament hook from the box, and when he remembers to turn his head back to the door, Kurt's gone.

.:|:.

Dave Karofsky is a freethinker in his own right. He has the haircut that makes him look like Julius Cheeser or however it's pronounced (_Caesar_, Dave, _Caesar_, he reminds himself) instead of the typical buzzcut that the rest of the the McKinley High football team has, and he invests time in purchasing sports polos from Lacoste with his dad's credit card. His hygiene isn't as bad as the Hummel freak thinks it is. And unlike most of the student body, Dave recognizes the Hummel freak as a freak through and through, if not for the fact that Kurt's gayer than a daffodil, then about the fact that he's a bloody hemophiliac, no pun intended.

"So. David. David Karofsky. Or may I just call you Dave?"

Emma Pillsbury is a ginger with eyes like a bush baby and a cardigan pulled straight out of an episode of _Happy Days_. Her voice has a unique quality about it; it's not quite a lisp so much as a tonality issue; the sounds seem to come from somewhere other than her mouth.

Dave decides that the sounds are definitely coming from her eyes, just because they're much larger than they should be.

"Dave," he answers gruffly, leaning back in his chair and drumming his thumbs against Emma's desk. The motion offsets some of the yellow pencils set on the desk perpendicular to the rulers (one is blue transparent plastic, the other is made of wood), and Emma lets out a startled squeak before her hands fly to the measuring devices. She's straightening them, and Dave is seriously disturbed.

Which should be expected. It's why his dad had signed him up for counseling sessions. He's worried—yes, worried—for his son. Dave Karofsky's grades have been dropping since the start of junior year, and he's been so violent that most McKinley football games are lost because of all the fouls instigated by his blatant hatred for other team members.

Ironic, since he plays on the same team as Kurt, or so it would seem.

"Okay, Dave," Emma says, falsely perky, once she's done realigning the rulers. "Um...so, I'm Miss Pillsbury, just in case you didn't know."

"Well, yeah," Dave replies, his square jaw moving along with his teeth grinding. "You've been the school counselor for, like, ever. I know who you are."

"Um. Yes. But, um, Dave?"

Dave leans in closer, deciding to humor her by feigning interest. "What?"

"Do you know who _you_ are?" Emma's smile is tiny but unwavering, and it doesn't translate up into her golf ball eyes. "Your father sent you here because he says he thinks you're having problems with self-identification."

"Look," Dave's voice lowers and takes on a pleading tone. "No matter what anyone says, or does, or thinks, just know that I am _not_ a freak."

Emma blinks once, twice, three times. "I know you're not a freak, Dave," she says in a small voice.

"Good, 'cause I've met freaks, and they're nothing like _me_."

"Oh? Freaks like who?"

Dave's grin fades and he slumps back in his seat again. "It's none of your business," he says carefully.

"Does this have anything to do with your apparent hatred towards Will Schuester and his glee club?" Emma asks, genuinely curious, but mostly wondering about Will. Then her mind drifts towards the thought of her boyfriend, Carl, and she immediately stuffs all of those Will-related musings back into her mind. Hot dentist or not, hot Spanish teacher or not (and both men are _definitely_ hot in Emma's mind), Emma Pillsbury does _not _need a man to help her overcome her itsy-bitsy problems.

Dave remains perfectly still, keeping a poker face that contrasts starkly with the blank smile on Emma's own cheery mug.

"Does it have something to do with Kurt Hummel?" Emma suggests gently.

A scowl immediately breaks Dave's perfect stare at the clock that's hanging a few feet above Miss Pillsbury's overly red hair. "What gave you that idea? Who told you anything about Fancy?" he demands, crossing thick arm over thick arm.

"Are you trying to pretend that I don't see you shoving him around in the hallway?" Emma continues, but her voice is even softer than a whisper. _That's it, I've given up. Karofsky's a nutter butter through and through,_ she thinks to herself.

Dave stares at the sliver of wall between Emma's shoulder and ear. "Yes," he says shortly.

Emma sighs and stands up, the squeaking noise from her chair irritating Dave's ears. He tries to avoid throttling her from behind as she practically tiptoes over to her rack of pamphlets and selects one from the assortment. Dave rolls his eyes when she finally makes it back to her desk and presses the pamphlet in question onto the space right in front of him.

"Dave," Emma asks, voice too serious to be coming out of Bushbaby Ginger, "Have you ever heard of Carl Jung?"

Dave snorts through his nose. "No," he all but guffaws.

"Oh," Emma returns, even though she had been expecting his response. "Well, Carl Jung was a Swiss psychiatrist who came up with the idea of...well, actually he came up with a lot of things. But this pamphlet—" she patted the folded, glossy page "—concentrates mostly on his ideas on individuation."

"What's that?" The words sound dumb, even to Dave.

"I want you to read the opening statement aloud for me. Then I want you to go home and think about it, and we can talk about it the next time we meet."

_Which will be never_, Dave thinks to himself as he scoots closer to the pamphlet so he can unfold it. "Okay, Pillsbury, where do I start?"

"Um," Emma says, taken aback by Dave's blatant disrespect for her. Has she not been stern enough? "Just...start here and read till the end of the section, please."

"Individuation," Dave begins, his blunt finger tracing along the sentences as he reads along, "is a process referenced often in the school of Jungian thought. In general, it is the process by which indi-individual beings are formed and di-di-differentiated from other human beings; in particular, it is the development of the puh-puh..."

"Yeah? That's pronounced _sy-ko-lo-gi-cal._ Psychological," Emma says encouragingly.

Dave scowls but continues. "In particular, it is the development of the psychological individual as a being distinct from the general, collective psychology." He looks up from the pamphlet. "Pillsbury, I don't know what in the flying fuck any of that meant."

"You won't know anything about it until you achieve it," Emma replies rather sagely. "Quite honestly, I don't know anyone who's gotten to it. Not even..." _Me_, she finishes in her head lamely. "Anyway. Ooh, fudge, would you look at the time?"

Only twenty minutes have passed in their planned half-hour meeting, but Dave's not one to object to it being shortened.

"I should be getting home to get a head start on my grape cleaning," Emma says apologetically. "And Carl—he's my boyfriend—promised me organic PB&J for dinner tonight."

Dave stands up, taking the pamphlet in his fist. "I, uh. I don't have a problem with that, I guess."

Emma leans over and plucks an orange overcoat from the rack by her desk. "I'll just be going, then. And Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget to read your pamphlet, 'kay?"

.:|:.

Dave goes home, skims the pamphlet, and shoves it into his football bag with the rest of his sports gear.

And promptly forgets about it.

.:|:.

"You did amazing with the Christmas tree," Blaine says once he and Kurt are out of Lima Memorial. He's hitching a ride to the Lima Bean in Kurt's car, and Kurt's leaning over the driver's wheel with a smug expression on his face because he can't help but agree. The tree had been laden with bright red ornaments and draped with the brassy tinsel until it shined in the fluorescent lights of the hospital, and Ashley had found a spare spray bottle that Kurt managed to fill with leftover gold paint, which was used to spritz small amounts of glitter on the tree with the lightest of pressure.

The final product looks like it should be displayed in an upscale boutique in New York, not a little hospital in Lima, Ohio.

"I do try," Kurt replies airily, reaching over to increase the heat setting of his car. Blaine releases a sigh of contentment a few moments later when warm air begins to trickle out from the vents of the car. "Besides, talent this fantastic isn't meant to be wasted."

Blaine's mouth opens and closes several times as he tries to latch onto something to say—there isn't much, and he and Kurt are used to silence. Not that they don't talk a lot, because they do, most of the time. They discuss everything from Vogue covers to film scores to Glee club gossip (more so on the New Directions' side of things than the Warblers', since there's very little drama going on at Dalton), really, and Blaine's generally a sociable guy. But he's also a gentleman who realizes that Kurt needs space more than anything.

Otherwise Kurt would suffocate.

Blaine clears his throat. "Speaking of talent, how are things going in terms of Sectionals for New Directions?"

A coy smile appears on Kurt's face as he makes a left turn. "Trying to spy, are we?" Blaine pouts and fixes his gaze upon the blinking green turn signal on the dashboard of the car.

"I'm not spying, I'm scoping the field," Blaine says defensively.

"Oh," Kurt replies distractedly. "Can I scope the field, too, then? How are the Warblers doing?"

"I'm definitely not leaking the song setlist, Kurt." Blaine's voice is firm.

An innocent look appears on Kurt's face. "Oh? So you _are_ singing the solo. Thought so."

Blaine's throat emits a kind of choked noise. Kurt hasn't gotten his solo yet, even after practicing daily after school, sometimes together with Blaine after they finished volunteering at the hospital. For a split second, Blaine worries that the volunteerism at Lima Memorial is stopping Kurt from getting as far as he could with the singing thing—and Blaine's guilty, yes.

The volunteering thing, though, is an excuse to spend more time with Kurt. Because they go to different schools, _rival_ schools, although in terms of academics Dalton's got McKinley beat.

"Y-you don't have any solos, then?" Blaine asks, folding his hands over his lap like a kid at the

principal's office .

Kurt chuckles, but the laugh sounds empty and joyless. "Too controversial, apparently. Not that we had any auditions—it's always Rachel who gets them."

"Rachel Berry?" Blaine can't help but ask. "Finn's girlfriend? The short one with the two gay dads?"

"The very same."

"She's singing the solo this year?"

"Well, no," Kurt says, dragging out the sound of the last vowel. "We haven't actually...I mean, New Directions hasn't even started practicing for Sectionals."

"Kurt, they're in two and a half weeks," Blaine tells him. "Isn't that cutting it a little bit too close?"

Kurt gives Blaine a funny look that's supposed to convey his confusion at Blaine's question; to Blaine, it just looks like he's got a scornful expression on his face. "I'm...sorry? What?" Kurt says slowly, trying to put the fragments of the question together in order to yield a coherent answer.

"So spending less than two weeks on choreography and general rehearsal is the norm at McKinley?"

"Well, yes," Kurt replies, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. "I mean, everyone's too busy completing Mr. Schuester's lessons of the week to concentrate on the final goal. Plus..." His voice drops down to a mere whisper and Blaine finds himself having to strain in order to hear Kurt over the low rumbling of the car's engine. "Finn's had a bit of a...falling out with Rachel—"

"But they seemed fine a few weeks ago when we took Finn to donate his blood," Blaine interrupts.

Kurt frowns. "Do you want the story, or not?" He presses his foot down onto the break a little bit too soon, and both he and Blaine lurch forward in their seats. "Oops, sorry, Blaine."

"Well, of course I want the story," Blaine says reasonably, adjusting his seatbelt with his thumb. "I mean, I've always found New Directions so fascinating..."

"So then," Kurt suggests shyly, a bright pink color appearing high on his cheekbones, gradually traveling upwards and downwards and all around until his entire face and neck is positively painted pink—or is that an exaggeration? Kurt feels as red as a lobster, but Blaine doesn't seem to notice, because he finds that he's getting a little bit distracted. Blaine's staring at Kurt's eyelashes as he looks down at the steering wheel bashfully.

"S-so then, what?" Blaine presses on after he snaps out of his distracted spell. He doesn't bother trying to ask himself what the strange warm feeling in his brain is, or the slight thrumming vibrations currently shaking their way through his chest.

He doesn't have an answer.

Kurt swallows, and Blaine's so far gone that he almost watches as Kurt's Adam's apple bobs in his neck. "I just...you should come to McKinley."

Blaine's nose wrinkles. He doesn't understand. "What, like, _transfer_? Oh, no. I'm happy at Dalton, I just—"

"No! N-no! No. No no no no," Kurt says, his head twitching back and forth. "I didn't mean like that—I know that you love Dalton, I mean, why wouldn't you, the academics are fabulous—but you should come visit for a day of practice."

"I thought you didn't appreciate the presence of spies?" Blaine asks with an adorable cock of his head, and suddenly the only word that's going through Kurt's mind is "lovely". _Lovely, lovely, lovely_, Kurt chants in his mind, rhapsodizing about how _lovely_ Blaine's eyes are and how _lovely_ his little curls are and how _lovely_ his shoulders look in his blazer and how _much he_...

Loves Blaine.

"That's fantastic," Kurt mutters to himself wryly.

"Sorry, what's fantastic?" There's that adorable thing that Blaine does with his head again, sort of cocking it to the side with a furrow traveling down his brow.

"Nothing! Nothing!" Kurt says, and his words shoot out of his mouth like bullets out of a shotgun. "New Directions trusts me. I mean, you can't really steal anything from us, anyway, I doubt that the songs we'll end up performing will be able to be transposed into the range of twenty-or-so males. Furthermore, our song selections tend to be driven by the background music, most of which is difficult to convert into the sound of the human voice."

"Our beat boxers are very talented," Blaine replies solemnly.

Kurt's head ducks down again so far that one of his bangs flips out from the confines of his coif and brushes against the steering wheel.

"I thought it would be a relatively good idea," Kurt mumbles to the car horn button fixed on the area of the steering wheel just above his upper lip. "Because I just—"

"_Kurt_," Blaine says suddenly, but _Kurt_ is his own person and _Kurt _doesn't really want to listen.

Kurt ignores him and continues to talk to the car horn. "I just...I really _enjoy_ the time that I spend with you, Blaine—"

"_Kurt_!"

"_What, _Blaine, okay_? What_?"

There's a car, a silver Toyota Land Cruiser peppered with bumper stickers, careening towards them, about to cross the intersection. There's Kurt's car, a Lincoln Navigator, scrubbed clean and polished and on its third windshield set since Mercedes Jones broke a hole through one of the windows, barrelling down the road at a solid speed that's unchecked by the driver, who had been too distracted by his own thoughts about one Blaine Anderson to keep his stupid eyes on the stupid road.

There's the squealing of car tires as Kurt slams his foot on the brakes, and a freezing chill migrates up Blaine's spine as the nanoseconds pound by.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks.

And the Land Cruiser collides with Kurt's Navigator with a sickening _crunch_, the airbags are out, and his words are choked back into his lungs.

**A/N****: I was so tempted to troll and just be like, "END OF STORY, GUYS." But I didn't.**

** I always appreciate feedback because it gives me ideas for future chapters. Please don't forget to hit the story alert/favorite/REVIEW button! **

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	5. Chapter 5

**READ ME:****This chapter was quite possibly the most emotionally taxing thing to write ever. For one, it made me realize how much I don't know about crashes/hospitals (I've only been in on fender-bender, and I wasn't even the driver), and two, it made me realize how shoddy I am at writing ze emotions. I hope that you all enjoy this, though!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.**

**"HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 5**

.:|:.

Burt Hummel, reader, doesn't get nearly as much credit as he deserves. He's been a terrific father to Kurt, he's led Kurt through his mother's death by the hand, he's led Kurt through the throes of puberty, and he's guided Kurt through the shark tank that is teenage sexuality. He's endured mountains of verbal abuse and at the end of the day, it is undeniable that there is no one who'd be able to create a triptych of love, courage, and devotion better than Burt. In the first panel there'd be a picture of Kurt dolled up in his makeup for his _Le Jazz Hot!_ performance earlier in September that had forced the abuse to skyrocket. The second panel would house the indistinct silhouette of Elizabeth, Kurt's too-soon-gone mother, wearing her favorite headscarf and a pair of opal earrings. The third would contain the most recent family portrait taken by the Hummels—a professionally taken shot of Kurt, Carole, Finn, and Burt. Kurt's wearing a finely tailored white tailcoat with a top hat that nearly obscures Finn, who towers over all of them in his signature polo and puffy vest. And to Burt, Carole looks like a complete angel in a simple blouse and trousers.

Burt's not dressed up in the photo. He's wearing flannel and a baseball hat, and there's probably a grease stain on the side of his neck, right over the jugular.

Notice how none of the three panels have anything to do with Kurt's acute hemophilia? You probably didn't, but that's fine.

It's because Kurt's hemophilia isn't a battle anymore; that is, it's become an accepted part of his life. A pair of leather shoes blister your feet the first three times you wear them, and then the pain altogether disappears. The hemophilia is not something that stops Kurt from doing too much, save for that time last spring that had Kurt begging Burt to join the Cheerios with his best friend, Mercedes Jones. There Burt had to put his workboot-clad foot down and say, "You know what, kid? I'm all for having you achieve your dreams, but cheerleading's a dangerous sport. I don't want you getting hurt by having some daffy girl fall on you from the top of that pyramid or something."

Burt's also had to deal with Kurt turning into a teenager not only uninterested in sports, but also completely unable to play them. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, little things like that, little things like _what could have been and what actually is_ just get him daily and he's not sure whether to feel ashamed or proud of himself for admitting the truth, no matter how cruel it is.

Case in point?

He's had to make some sacrifices.

You can imagine the piercing feeling in his chest he gets (not so far from what he felt two months ago when he collapsed in his garage due to a spontaneous heart attack) when he gets a frustratingly detached phone call from Lima Memorial informing him of—

Well, let's not go over those details just yet.

.:|:.

"B-blaine?" Kurt asks shakily from his seat. _Cold, cold,_ he thinks to himself. _Wet._ There's a small laceration on his forehead that's pooling up with blood that pours out too fast. It's nothing too big.

If only he could stop the bleeding.

He presses his hand to the wound and manages to control the blood flow, but he's already feeling numb and lightheaded. Part of it has to be purely psychological, since he can't have lost that much blood yet.

That's when Kurt thinks to turn his head to the side over to the passenger seat, where Blaine looks positively broken leaning against the flat car window. _Wrong, wrong_, Kurt thinks, eyes widening at the side of Blaine's left arm, stretched grotesquely and lying limply on the cup holder between them. _So wrong_, because Blaine's eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning out above his strong cheek bones. _But not too wrong_, he concludes, because Blaine's definitely still breathing, if with a little bit of difficulty. Kurt sighs in relief and winces in pain. A quick inspection of his chest proves that there's a bruise quickly forming under onion-like skin.

_Thin skin_.

Sue Sylvester once called it porcelain.

"Blaine," Kurt says. It sounds like a statement now. It's not a question anymore. "Blaine, wake up."

That's when he hears the sirens.

.:|:.

_Wait a moment,_ you must be thinking to yourself. _How did Kurt survive? You can't put a hemophiliac in a car crash and expect him to _survive.

This is what really happened:

Kurt had been driving down the road without paying attention. He had been thinking about Blaine, and he had been getting ready to admit some major feelings of attraction, too. His foot had been inadvertently pressed onto the accelerator as he continued to think and talk to and about Blaine. In his embarrassment, the steering wheel became particularly interesting to look at.

He didn't look up at the road again until after the crash.

Blaine had noticed the car first, a silver Toyota Land Cruiser. It hadn't been doing anything too bad, maybe going five miles above the speed limit, but who doesn't like to let loose once and a while?

Yes, everyone agrees that it was the fault of sixteen-year-old Kurt in front of the wheel.

The driver of the Land Cruiser had been expecting Kurt's Lincoln Navigator to either slow down or stop completely. You can imagine his surprise when it didn't.

The collision had been scarily fast, just the squeal of the tires and then a crashing noise that reminded Blaine of the time Wes had pranced into the Senior Commons with a glass vase full of marbles that was promptly dropped and broken.

Blaine didn't make a single sound when the cars collided.

Kurt did. He let out a frightened cry and he pressed down so hard on the brakes he thought he pushed a hole through his boots. And, of course, there was the smaller-than-a-whimper "B-blaine?" he uttered directly after the collision.

Here's something else that happened during the accident:

Blaine, noticing the Toyota careening towards them, had stretched out his left hand over the area that separated the driver's seat from shotgun and held Kurt's body in place as the air bags popped out, bruising Kurt's chest and possibly splinter-fracturing a rib, but saving him from anything else. Had Blaine's arm not been there, Kurt would have gotten the full force of the air bag and would have been positively crushed, killed by his own bones.

Blaine's left arm, however, _did_ get the full brunt of the air bag's force, and he ended up with a severe fracture. The intense pain had been enough to make him black out completely, broken arm lolling over the empty cup holders eerily.

And the driver of the Land Cruiser?

In the aftermath, he found himself able to get out of the car and walk away from the accident asking the paramedics for insurance to cover the damage on his car.

.:|:.

"We've got minors in the car," the first paramedic says as she gingerly opens the door. She stares at the crushed-in front of the car warily. "Doesn't look too bad, but this one's got a broken arm—"

"Bloody kids," the second one says in a booming voice. "Check for any ID's first. Jesus, the paler one looks like death right now."

The first paramedic sighs and unbuckles Blaine's seatbelt first. "Get this one loaded into the ambulance. I'll check on the driver." She walks around the car and manages to get Kurt unbuckled before feeling around his neck for any sort of identification. When she finds the necklace chained around Kurt's neck, her eyes widen. "_Shit! _Karl!"

The second paramedic is back, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm and puffing warm air from his mouth like cigar smoke. "What, Marie?" he asks, rounding about the car and motioning for more personnel to help him load Kurt up into the ambulance. Marie's ice-cold fingers dip into the neckline of Kurt's sweater and fish out the dog tag, steely and brutal. "Kurt Hummel," Karl reads out loud. "Blood type AB. Hemophiliac. _Shit!_"

"Karl!" Marie shouts. "Give me a hand unloading this one, here!" She presses a pad of gauze into Kurt's clammy forehead and winds her arms through the space made in-between his underarms and torso; Karl nods and lifts Kurt up from the backs of his knees. Together, they make slow progress to the ambulance, and the whirring of the red-and-blue lights on the car seems so, so blinding.

Kurt's eyelids flutter once, twice, three times, and Marie gently lifts him onto a stretcher and continues to apply pressure to his forehead. "He can't bleed out too much," she says to Karl hoarsely. "He's got to have been treated for his hemophilia, see? The blood loss isn't too bad." Kurt shudders a little bit as she makes short work of the buttons on his shirt. "We got some acute bruising on the rib," she continues. "Can we get an x-ray to scan for any breaks?"

The drive to the hospital is nerve-wracking, and the ambulance speeds through the lazy road flow of noontime Ohio, occasionally honking at the drivers who aren't exactly aware of the whirring and the noise. Blaine flinches a lot in his sleep, and he's immediately injected with some painkillers to ease the jarring ache in his arm. Kurt twitches every once and a while. Marie's hands never leave his forehead, even when Karl puts a hand on her shoulder and pronounces Kurt to be more shaken up than anything. Marie doesn't let up though. "He might have a concussion, Karl, we can't let him go under," she murmurs.

The worst part is wheeling the boys through the emergency room with everyone giving them odd looks. From the exterior, neither of them appears to be that hurt, and that probably actually is the case. Kurt will be patched up good as new after the doctors discover that he's simply a little bit bruised and beaten up, and Blaine will be put in a cast and sling for a month or so for his fractured arm (it's broken in two places, much to the doctors' dismay). One of Blaine's lower ribs got cracked a bit by the airbag, so he'd be spending some time healing.

So, no. Scratch that. The worst part of the entire situation is actually the wounded cry they hear from the nurse Ashley, who recognizes both of the boys immediately and immediately assumes the worst. Once she's filled in on the fact that neither of the boys are particularly hurt ("Kurt, oh my God, Kurt," was the first thing out of her mouth), she's put to the task of calling up the Hummels and the Andersons. "Be as gentle as possible, and don't let them think the worst," Dr. Paulsen says when she visits her on lunch break.

Fingers trembling with trepidation, Ashley seats herself at her desk and raises the phone to her ear. The dial tone is detached. It sounds like an alarm and for a brief moment she feels like unplugging the damn thing and throwing it into the town lake or something. She flips through papers and finds Burt Hummel's home phone number. That's the one she dials first, and there's no answer. Ashley skims down the list and finds the number to a place called Hummel's Tires & Lube and keys that into the phone. She's pleased when Burt picks up, but then she realizes what she has to do and she's immediately sobered. It doesn't matter if Kurt's going to be completely fine. No parent deserves their kid getting into a car crash.

"Hullo, Hummel's Tires & Lube," Burt says into the phone, and Ashley revels in how different his voice sounds in comparison to Kurt's breathy countertenor. "Burt speaking."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," Ashley says. "I'm going to have to tell you something. Rest assured everything is under control, but I think you're going to want to sit down for this."

Burt makes a confused noise, but the scraping sound on the other end of the line suggests that he had dragged a stool out from somewhere. "Listen, uh, who are you again?"

Ashley pauses. "This is Ashley. I'm a nurse at Lima Memorial."

"The one that Kurt's been workin' with for a while?"

"That's the one."

Burt sighs. Phone calls from the hospital were common, but they seldom came in between Kurt's appointments. "Listen, is my kid good, or bad, or sick, or what?"

Ashley feels a sinking feeling in her chest. "Now, uh, he's fine. Or at least, he's fine now. He's just...he's been in a car accident."

She hears a crinkling noise on the phone. It appears that Burt has jumped out of his seat unceremoniously, forcing the legs of the chair to scrape against the cement flooring. "He..._what_?"

"He was in a car crash with another minor," Ashley tells him, struggling to keep her voice detached. "Blaine Anderson."

"Blaine," Burt says in recognition, pulling his cap off of his head and rubbing the little hair he has left. "Who the hell hit 'em?"

"We still haven't filed the police report yet, since they're still undergoing treatment—" Burt makes an angry noise, and Ashley is quick to release a few comforting sounds before returning to her duty. "—the other driver, it appears, is okay, though. It actually wasn't too bad of a crash."

"I just...can't believe my kid got into a crash. He's normally a decent driver. Thought I taught him better than that," Burt says, shell-shocked. "I'm coming over to the hospital right now. Is that fine? Actually, no. I'm coming over to the hospital anyway, no matter what you say."

"That's fine, Mr. Hummel. Thank you, we'll see you then."

Ashley shakes her head a little bit as she plunks the receiver down and flips through the shiny plastic-protected sheets of medical information, all the way back to the A's, until she finds the phone number of Richard Anderson, Attorney.

He picks up promptly on the first ring, as any business professional is wont to do. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson, my name is Ashley. I'm a nurse from Lima Memorial." Ashley's nervous. Every statement comes out sounding like a question. _Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson? My name is Ashley? I'm a nurse from Lima Memorial?_

"Ashley. Blaine talks about you a lot," Richard says in a distinctively monotone voice. "Why are you calling?"

"Oh, does he really?" Ashley asks. "He's a good kid. I just..."

Richard makes an impatient noise. "Ashley, I'm a very busy man. If it's a problem with his service hours—"

Ashley's face twists up into a sour frown. "It's not, Mr. Anderson," Ashley snaps. "He's been in a car crash, sir."

The line goes silent. "A car crash?" Richard asks, voice faltering. "Is he okay?"

"He's going to be fine. He's got a broken arm and a rib, but we have him on painkillers right now and he's doing very well."

Richard's voice goes sharp again. "Who was the driver?"

"Kurt Hummel," Ashley says. "I'm sure you've heard of him."

"No. No, actually I haven't," Richard replies shortly, opening the door of his office with a creak and grabbing his coat off the wall. "I'm on my way to the hospital. I'm in Westerville, so it'll take about an hour."

"That's completely fine," Ashley says. "They're not going anywhere. They're doing just fine, sir, I promise you."

Richard makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like, "He better be," and then the phone goes quiet.

.:|:.

Kurt's allowed to be up and about a few short hours later, but he's forced to be wheelchair-bound ("I feel like Artie Abrams," he had grumbled weakly, much to everyone's confusion. "An Artie Abrams with nicer hair."), and the first thing he wants to do is see Blaine. Burt Hummel had arrived an hour or two earlier fresh off of his shift at work and hadn't strayed from his son's side since.

"You sure you don't want to just rest, son?" he asks as Ashley wheels Kurt down the corridor.

"I've done enough resting," Kurt says tiredly. He had been given medicine and his forehead had been bandaged up earlier. "I want to see Blaine."

Ashley smiles. "Blaine's asleep, sweetie, so it won't make much of a difference."

"I just want to apologize to him," Kurt says in a quiet voice. "That's all. It was my fault we even got into the stupid crash."

"Kid, it was nobody's fault," Burt says, patting his son on the shoulder with his lips pressed together tightly.

Kurt's eyes fall from his father's gaze and he stares at the shiny linoleum floor, counting the tiles he passes. "Dad, you don't know the half of it," he replies sadly.

When they get to Blaine's room, the first thing Kurt sees is a man wearing a respectable three-piece suit with an overcoat slung over his forearm mopping sweat off of his brows with a handkerchief. He's got Blaine's eyebrows—thick, geometric, and starkly defined—as well as Blaine's Roman-styled nose, and he doesn't notice Blaine's visitors until Kurt sneezes and Ashley lets out an unchecked, "Bless you."

"Good afternoon," Richard says. "Nice to see you again, Ashley."

Ashley puts the brake on Kurt's wheelchair and crosses the room so that she can stand next to Blaine, who looks haggard and considerably worse than Kurt. "How are you, sweetie?" she asks, busily fluffing up Blaine's pillows from behind and cranking up the hospital bed so that his chest is a little bit more elevated. "Still in pain?"

Blaine groans. "I'm sleepy," he mumbles. "And everything is so...bright. Ugh."

Kurt has to laugh at that. "Probably a side effect of the cocktail of drugs they gave you," he murmurs fondly.

"Kurt?" Blaine asks. "Is that Kurt?" His arm twitches in its sling. "Oh my God, it's Kurt. Are you okay? Are you in pain? Have you been bleeding at all?"

Ashley rubs her hand over Blaine's curls affectionately. "Shh, don't strain yourself too much, you'll ruin the dressing on your rib."

Kurt looks up at his father. "Dad? Can I? I mean, can you...?" Burt nods, wordlessly releases the wheelchair brake with his foot, and pushes Kurt around so that he's pretty much at eyelevel with Blaine.

"Hey," Kurt whispers. "How are you feeling?"

Blaine thinks about the silent throb in his ribcage and the drugged haze that is his perception of the world presently. "Pretty awful," he concedes with a tiny smile. "It's not too bad. I just kind of feel like everything's out of focus, you know?"

"Do you remember anything about the car crash, Blaine?" Richard Anderson's voice is strong and diplomatic. "Sorry," he adds apologetically, more for Burt's sake than anyone else's. "He wasn't really talking much until you came in."

"Sir, I'm not sure whether that would be the best idea—" Ashley starts.

"It was my fault," Kurt says. "I was talking with Blaine and I got distracted. I wasn't looking at the road and we hit someone. I'm thankful that he's okay." He looks down at Blaine earnestly. "Blaine, I am _so_ sorry this had to happen to you. It should have been me, I swear."

"Hold up, Kurt, I'm having an enlightenment. Share it with me," Blaine whispers fervently.

"I'm sorry. And I know that at this point words mean nothing, because I'm not the one who's bandaged from head to toe and hopped up on a cornucopia of Oxycontin right now," Kurt continues, a sob bubbling up in his throat. "A-and I realized that this is probably going to affect Dalton's performance at Sectionals much more than it's going to affect McKinley's, since you're the lead singer." He takes in a shaky breath, and he can feel all of the bones in his body rattle like a children's toy. "This is a mess, and it's all my fault..."

Blaine lets out a lungful of air. "It couldn't have been you, Kurt."

Kurt tries his hardest to breathe, but he can't stop the tears welling up in his eyes, even as he stubbornly wipes them off with the back of his hand. Burt has settled himself in the corner, and it's visibly taking him everything he has to not stride over to Kurt and take care of him. Ashley is still standing there, probably missing some of her calls. Only Richard looks unmoved by the scene playing out in front of him.

"Kurt, you are _so lucky_ to not have been killed in that crash," Ashley says. "It's a miracle that the airbag didn't crush your ribcage and puncture a lung or something. Don't take that for granted."

Richard sighs. "My son's had enough stress as is, Ashley. Let's not delve into the particulars."

Kurt shakes them all off. "What happened to your arm?" he asks, gently tracing the contours of the cast with his index finger.

Blaine shakes. He trembles.

"He doesn't remember," Richard says, and the sense of finality surrounding his words is like a vaccine.

They sting.

Half an hour later, when Burt's filling up the hospital paperwork, he doesn't even know they're there.

.:|:.

Dave Karofsky is halfway done half-assing his calculus assignment when he gets the email from McKinley from Figgins.

_Kurt Hummel, junior class of 2012, has been in a car accident. Please send healing thoughts his way._

That's all it says.

"You must admit that you care deeply," Emma says the next day, during their second therapy session. She's wearing an ochre shrug and a floral print dress, and her brown eyeliner is a little bit smudged around the tear ducts. Probably from crying about Schuester or something, Dave reasons.

"Care deeply?" Dave parrots. "About Hummel? You think I'm crazy?"

Emma laces her fingers together sadly. "He's a hemophiliac, David, and he's just been in a car crash. Thank goodness he's alright."

Dave shakes his head. "That's crazy. I can't believe he survived that collision."

"Some people just get lucky," Emma replies. "Kurt has always been destined for bigger things than Lima, Ohio."

Dave can't think of a response for her.

"It's something that could be yours, too," Emma says gently, tilting her head to the side. The unspoken, "What could be mine?" hangs in the air between them, thick and viscous, until Emma wises up and adds, "The chance to experience something bigger than just...this."

"Why are we talking about this?" Dave counters. He's putting up his make-believe walls again. They're strong as steel but volatile as dominoes. An Emma clad in knight's armor and riding a horse could gallop on up to it and knock the entire protective barrier down with a mere tap. "We can talk about everything else. Just not...not Hummel."

Emma frowns. "I'm talking about the things that affect you. Kurt Hummel is not a perfect person." She shudders at the memory of Kurt's technicolor yawn all over her kitten heels (the technicolor part was not intended to be a hidden gay joke, not at all.) "But he does have something that you don't have, and that's a slight grip on who he is as a person."

"You're kidding."

"He struggles with self-actualization just as much as you do, Dave. He just...he just _does _something about it and that's what makes him unique."

Dave shakes his head. "I can't understand you."

"It's not that you _can't_. It's that you _don't_. I trying my best here to get the...the message across," Emma replies weakly.

Dave sits there and waits for Emma's inevitable add-on comment.

"Do you know how many things Kurt has going against him, Dave?" Emma asks finally.

"He's a twink?" suggests Dave.

"Don't call him that."

"He's got that...blood thing."

"It's called hemophilia. It's a very serious medical condition."

"He's in Schuester's Glee club. New Directi—I mean, Homo Explosion."

"Which is something, um, I think actually helps him more than hurts him."

"That's only three things," Dave complains.

Emma smiles. "And what do you have going against you, David?"

It doesn't surprise her when he can't come up with an answer.

.:|:.

Wes raps his gavel against the marble countertop. "Order in the Commons. The Dalton Academy Warblers' pre-pre-Sectionals meeting commences."

"We called this meeting to discuss something," David says. "I'm sure that all of you have heard of junior member Blaine Anderson's car accident."

There's a murmur of confirmation from all of the Warblers in the room.

"The accident has rendered him incapable of singing and dancing in front of a competitive audience. He actually managed to break a rib and an arm," David continues. "The Council has concluded that we need to rework our Sectionals number."

Wes clears his throat and scans the room. "Starting with a new soloist," he deadpans.

There's a second of silence, and then the room is in an uproar.

**A/N: Again, feedback is much appreciated! Stories like "Bleeding Love" rely so much on input from the readers. Anyway, thank you so much for reading! **

**Stay in touch/creep me/message me/ask me questions on my Tumblr:**

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	6. Chapter 6

**READ ME: As I typed this out, I realized that this was probably going to be one of the shorter chapters in this series. It should provide for a nice change in pace, however, which is always nice. Things are about to really get moving in Lima, Ohio. I hope that you stick around long enough for the drama to unfold!**

**Beta'ed by the lovely pollychapel (on Tumblr), aka ificannotflyletmesing (FF).**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.**

**"HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 6**

.:|:.

"This is impossible!"

"It's heresy, that's what this is!"

Wes surveys the chaos unfolding with cold, calculating eyes. "You can honestly expect Warbler Blaine to perform, _onstage_, with a broken rib and a crushed arm, do you?"

Jeff sits up in his seat. "He can theoretically just stand there, you know." He mimes a microphone in front of him. "Stand there and sing, with the mic in front of him."

The Warblers' eyes are cold as they all turn to Jeff and emphatically articulate, "_No._"

It is David who stands up in his seat and calls, "Point of order, point of order!" Wes' hands drop to his lap and he listens. "We had two second-choice soloists selected already. Why not just use Warbler Jeff or Warbler Nick?"

"Because!" Thad sputters defiantly. "No one else has Blaine's charisma!"

"Excuse me?" Nick counters. "Blaine doesn't even have a working _arm_ anymore."

The gavel beats down once more with three harsh bangs. "Silence!" Wes bellows. He turns to Thad. "What are you suggesting? Pulling out of the competition?"

There are murmurs of "Insane..." and "Deranged much?" floating throughout the Senior Commons from various members of the Warblers.

"Maybe," Thad mutters angrily, eyes downcast.

David sits back down again. "Look," he tells his fellow classmates. "I'm a senior, this is my last year at Dalton. Don't take my last Sectionals competition away from me. Don't take the first Sectionals competition away from the freshmen here. That's all I'm saying."

That elicits golf claps all around, pitter-pattering like raindrops.

Wes nods. "Excellently stated, Warbler David."

"In order to be fair, though," David continues, "perhaps we should put it to a vote?"

Thad's lips press themselves together in a grim line. "We'd have three options, then, correct?"

"Yes," Wes answers. He ticks off the options on his fingers as he says them. "Jeff doing a solo, Nick doing a solo, or your idea."

"Well then," says David, rising from his chair once more and balancing the tips of his fingers on the surface of the table. "Would you like to present your counter-point, Thad?"

Thad nods.

A bang from the gavel, and Wes says, "Warbler Council member Thaddeus has the floor."

"Fellow Warblers," Thad begins, lacing his fingers together. "Blaine Anderson has become an irreplaceable fixture in our team. His hard work, charisma, and dedication has kept us running since his admission into our organization last year, and, quite honestly, it is easy to say that he has delivered every single time."

The Warblers express a ripple of agreement.

"Wouldn't it be insensitive of us, an insult to _Blaine's hard work_, to simply disregard his injuries and carry on?"

"You forget that this is our ticket to a National title," David interrupts, but Wes is quick to silence him.

"I know how it feels to be forgotten. I've been here for four years and the closest thing I've ever gotten to a solo was the tenor in the three-part 'Hey!' in the intro to 'Hey, Soul Sister'." Thad smiles triumphantly as he watches the Warblers' faces transform from looks of seeming disbelief to slight acceptance. "All I'm saying is, why should we bestow such feelings of estrangement upon Blaine?"

"Well spoken, my friend," Wes says.

"Shouldn't Blaine be here for this discussion?" Nick asks, but his question is ignored.

"All in favor of a Jeff solo for Sectionals?" Wes asks.

No hands.

"All in favor of a Nick solo for Sectionals?"

No hands.

"All in favor of no Sectionals at all?"

Every single Warbler raises their hand, from the tiniest freshman to the tallest senior in the class.

"Oh, Thaddeus. You Marc Antony, you," murmurs Nick pensively, hand swaying in the air. "This isn't going to end well."

.:|:.

Burt Hummel emits a wheezing sigh as he slumps down onto the kitchen table and pours skim milk into his bran cereal. Dark circles have appeared under his kind eyes that track his son, who paces around the small perimeter of the kitchen in small, measured steps. "You, uh, trying to find something, kid?" Burt asks, settling into his chair. He takes a bite of cereal and winces only slightly at the cardboard taste.

"Waiting," Kurt says, tapping his hands against his thighs.

"Well, I can see that. Obviously," Burt says fondly. "For who?"

Kurt's nose drifts higher in the air, as he's wont to do in any sort of interrogative situation. "Finn to get home from football practice," he says, voice as innocent as possible.

Burt's mouth opens and he lets out a gentle guffaw. "I see. You want a ride."

With his lips pursed tight, Kurt nods in three stiff jerks and folds his hands together. He doesn't stop pacing as he tells his father, "Dad, I don't have a car anymore, and you're not letting me drive, so I _really_ need to catch a ride to Lima Memorial—"

"But you just got discharged yesterday!" Burt exclaims, putting his spoon back into the cereal in surprise. "Do you have another appointment you didn't tell me about?" He looks down at his bowl. "Do _I_ have another appointment I didn't know about...?"

"Oh, Burt," Carole says, appearing at the door with several brown paper bags full of groceries in her arms and her car keys dangling around her finger. "He wants to see Blaine." She shoots him a meaningful look. "_Obviously_."

Finn is a few steps behind her, carrying a huge crate of apples. "I don't get it. You just saw him yesterday," he says, face contorting in confusion. There are dark sweat stains along the armpits and chest area of his shirt, and Kurt wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Gross, Finn," he complains, taking three steps back. "Take a shower, why don't you?"

"Ah-ah-ah," says Carole, heaving the last of the groceries onto the kitchen counter. The weight of the groceries makes the table rock a bit, and Burt frowns as several drops of milk escape from the confines of the bowl. "Finn, be a good big brother and take Kurt to the hospital."

Finn frowns. "But I have, uh. Homework. I have homework." Homework's a good excuse, right? Something that needs to be done, but isn't?

Burt looks up from his cereal and presses his palms together. "You know what, kid, I think it's a good idea. You promised Kurt you'd be there for him—"

"Please?" Kurt asks.

Carole shoots a look at Finn that says, "Help your little brother get through this or so help me God, I'll—"

"...alright," Finn says with a sigh.

Kurt immediately launches himself towards Finn for a hug. "!" he squeals. He sniffs at Finn's t-shirt suspiciously. "Okay, I'm not riding in a car with that sitting next to me."

"I'll shower first," Finn suggests, and Carole beams at him.

Kurt looks down at himself. "I think I'm going to change. My pants are getting wrinkled around the knees, I hate that."

Burt and Carole hold happy faces until their sons leave the kitchen. Once they can hear Kurt's heavy boots thumping along the staircase, their happy faces dissolve into something more morose. Heavier.

"You know that we should talk to him about the accident a bit more," Carole says, opening the refrigerator and popping in two egg cartons. "He doesn't know about the car repair fees—"

"That and the money we owe the man they crashed into," Burt says. "It's a lot of money, Carole."

Carole sighs. "I know, I know." She walks over to her husband and presses her hands into his shoulders. "Let's just let him bask in relief, for now."

"I don't want to yell at him," Burt admits. "I'm just really glad he's okay."

"But the money," Carole murmurs. "Oh, the money. The medical bills, Kurt's apparent obsession with designer brands, and now the accident..."

Shifting in his seat, Burt says, "The clothes have never been a problem. Kurt finds crazy bargains, and he swaps a lot of his stuff with people from Armenia. Or so he tells me." He shakes his head. "I don't know what goes on inside that head of his."

Carole doesn't answer. Instead, she listens to the sound of Kurt and Finn leaving the house. The creak of the door prefaces the revving of a car's engine, and they're gone.

.:|:.

Dave Karofsky isn't sure of the means by which he transported himself to Lima Memorial Hospital, his letterman jacket halfway unbuttoned and a bouquet of yellow daisies fresh from the refrigerator of Walmart held between his meaty fingers. All he knows is that Emma Pillsbury had suggested a certain kind of reconciliation that could only be completed by going directly to the Hummel kid and nipping any feelings of residual angst in the bud.

Of course, Pillsbury hadn't been informed of the locker room incident or of Dave's possible homosexuality.

Locker shoves and slushees to the face can be cured with a few kind words and a couple of flowers for good measure.

Softcore sexual assault, however, can't.

Regardless, Dave trudges on up to the reception desk, where a bored looking male nurse is doodling on a pad of paper, his hospital scrubs seeming too cheery and bright for the hospital. They're cobalt blue, with a myriad of technicolor Elmos spread across the fabric like a chipper case of the chicken pox.

Dave brushes his fingers along the desk and clears his throat. No response, and bored male nurse—after a quick inspection, Dave's eyes scan across his nametag and find that he's named Gabriel—simply sighs, switches pen colors, and begins to shade in his drawing. "Excuse me?" Dave prods, leaning into the desk. "Hello?"

Gabriel doesn't look up from his rather shaky rendition of the Mona Lisa.

Dave slams his palm into the surface of the desk, and with an unceremonious _plunk,_ Gabriel finally looks up at him. Some professionals they've got working at the hospital, Dave thinks to himself. Can't even tell when there's someone at the desk. He could be bleeding his guts out right now and Gabriel wouldn't have batted a single eyelash.

Gabriel shoves the slip of paper underneath a diagnosis book and away from Dave's sight. "How may I help you?" he asks, dark eyes blinking up at Dave, jaded at the edges. How many accidents had Gabriel had to deal with so far? Were his reactions still the same, or had he grown immune to emotion, passing over injuries and death like they were simply run-of-the-mill situations like leaving the refrigerator door open or forgetting to separate the whites from the rest of the clothes in the washing machine? Was the spilling of blood the same as the spilling of milk—no use in crying over it anymore?

More importantly, since when did Dave care about such travesties?

"Look," Dave begins, wielding the flower bouquet in front of him like a rapier. "I wanna see someone. A patient."

Gabriel's eyes scan over his body for a fleeting moment, resting on the M logo embroidered onto his letterman jacket. "You here to see Kurt Hummel?"

"How the hell did you know that?" Dave demands, voice dropping low and dangerous. His mind immediately jerks to thoughts of Gabriel assuming things about his relationship with the Hummel kid.

"Relax, hotrod," Gabriel says with a bored look on his face. "You're from McKinley. You're probably the seventh kid who's been through here this week." He opens the thick plastic binder in front of him, fingers skimming to the section marked with a bolded "H" and flipping through the pages. "I'll just look up his file and see if he's up to receiving visitors."

Dave's posture relaxes and he stands there quite foolishly, clutching the flowers as hard as he can without snapping the petals off the delicate stems.

"That's...odd," Gabriel mutters. "It seems like Kurt's been discharged already. He wasn't injured too bad in that car crash."

The ends of Dave's lips curl downwards. "You knew about that?"

"Kurt's become a bit of a..." Gabriel bites his lips, searching for the correct words. "...permanent fixture here at Lima Memorial. He's a regular patient, of course, but he's been volunteering a lot lately. Naturally, the entire hospital was alerted when he got into the accident." His voice trails off as he adds, "Ashley made sure of it."

"Sure," Dave answers distractedly. "Do you know where I can find him?

Gabriel's eyes widen exponentially. "I'm not allowed to shell out personal information like that, Mister..." His voice trails off, waiting for Dave to fill in the blank.

"Dave. Uh, Dave Karofsky."

"Dave, then. I can't give you his address or anything."

Dave gives him a hollow laugh. "I already know his address, duh—" He stops mid-sentence, memories of nailing furniture to the Hummel roof still fresh in his mind. "I mean, what I meant was, when does he drop by here in the hospital?"

"Directly after school," Gabriel supplies easily with a flippant wave of his hand. "Sometimes on the weekends. And he's also been visiting his friend a lot."

"Who?"

"You probably don't know him," Gabriel tells him quite confidently.

Dave's mouth contorts itself into an ugly grimace. "Tell me," he presses on. "Now."

"Look, I—" Gabriel's eyes meet Dave's. "Look, it's Blaine Anderson, okay?"

"Private school pretty boy," Dave mutters under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing," Dave says. "I know him. I think I'll check by his room for a little bit to look for Humme—Kurt. Is that okay?"

A wide white grin settles on Gabriel's face, starkly contrasting with the darkness of his skin. "That's completely okay, Dave." He scribbles down a short sequence of numbers on a Post-It note and tacks it on the desk space directly in front of Dave. "That's his room number. Straight down the hallway and to the left once you get off the elevator on floor three. Okay?"

"Okay," Dave parrots, staring at the numbers in awe.

"Oh, and Dave?" Gabriel asks, pulling out a clipboard and pen. "The Lima Memorial blood drive is going on right now." He motions to the sign up sheet. We can set up an appointment for you to work around your school day, if you want. Save a life?"

Images of intimidating machines and various winding catheters fill Dave's mind, winding around the lumpy shape of his brain and poking uncomfortably at his veins. He pictures getting his blood tested and the doctors pronouncing him as queer—could they tell? Would they be able to tell that he was...gay, or questioning, or just plain _confused_, if they tested the blood? Would they be able to cure him? Leave his past behind, start anew. Get to the top of a different school and succeed, free from the ghosts that haunted him?

"Um," says Dave. "N-no thanks. I think I'm...I think I'm too busy trying to save my own."

All he gets is a sympathetic nod from Gabriel.

The conversation is over.

In his haste to get to the elevator, Dave leaves the daisy bouquet on the desk. Gabriel doesn't notice, too wrapped up in his doodles to care.

.:|:.

Kurt shuffles uncomfortably in the stool next to Blaine's bed, the waistband of his skinny jeans pressing into the side of his hipbones. The medicine he had been on in the car crash's aftermath had caused his body to bloat up a little around the waist. The last time Kurt felt as unattractive as this had been during his sophomore year, when he had practically slummed around drinking April Rhodes' pink chablis like a fish. Regardless of his personal discomfort, however, Kurt had decided to brave a quick journey to see Blaine, still in bed rest for his broken rib, even though he technically doesn't need it. Kurt has a sneaking suspicion that Richard Anderson had put the hospital up to it—Blaine bounces around too much for his own good.

"I wish I could do something to help," Kurt says, leaning against the edge of Blaine's bed and shuddering as he breathes in the smell of rubbing alcohol and latex gloves. "I really do."

"It's not your fault," answers Blaine dismissively with an adorable smile adorning his face. "I can hardly feel a thing."

Kurt laughs bitterly. "Yeah, that's not a good thing." He pushes himself off of the rickety three-legged stool and paces to the other side of the bed. "Look, Blaine. I feel awful."

"It's just Sectionals," Blaine says earnestly, but Kurt can sense the tinge of regret seeping into his words. "There'll be lots of other competitions to work with. Lots of other performances, too. The Warblers perform at nursing homes all the time."

_I adore you_, Kurt feels like saying as Blaine pulls another loopy grin on him. Instead, he answers, "Yeah, but you had the _solo_ in this one. That's a big deal."

"Oh, stop," Blaine says. "You don't know the Warblers. They give me the solo in, like, _everything_. It'll be nice to hear some new voices. I promise." He holds up the arm that isn't all rigid from plaster.

The stab of envy that Blaine's words send is enough to silence Kurt. Instead, he stares at Blaine, eyes tracing the bump in his nose, the sharp curve of his cheekbone. Trying to count the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes before giving up and telling himself inwardly, "There are too many to count."

Blaine seems to notice Kurt's attentiveness, and the smile immediately fades from his lips once Kurt's eyes fall to them, pupils moving along the bracket formed by his Cupid's bow and skimming along the line between his top and bottom lip.

Kurt is tantalized. Completely out of his mind, completely out of his depth. "You can't tell me that you don't wonder," he whispers, eyes still roaming along Blaine's face, memorizing the dips and divots and noticing the shadow of hair beginning to appear on his chin. "About who they're going to pick as the soloist."

"Probably Jeff. Or Nick. Or David," Blaine says offhandedly. "You don't need to worry."

Kurt looks down at his thumbs defeatedly and shrugs.

"I swear," Blaine adds, left hand reaching over to tilt Kurt's chin up so that their eyes can meet properly. "Look at me, Kurt."

He complies.

"Do I look concerned?" Blaine makes a show of attempting to look as serene as possible.

"No."

Kurt lifts his hand up to Blaine's and feels it with the back of his palm. Blaine's hand still hasn't left his face—Kurt tries to not call it _caressing_, but what else is there to call it? "Stroking" sounds downright naughty, and so does "rubbing". "Patting" doesn't convey the intimacy of the gesture, "pressing" suggests too much force. It's a touch, a simple touch, barely Blaine's fingertips cupping cheek.

But still. It's something more meaningful than Kurt can begin to describe.

In fact, Kurt can feel himself leaning into Blaine, eyes resting on his lips, wondering what they would feel like. Does Blaine exfoliate his lips, Kurt wonders, just like me? Or would they feel rough but endearing? And, by God, what would they taste like? _I adore you. I adore you, adore you adore you._ He repeats it until the _adores_ mix up with the _yous_ and the words almost match his heartbeat. _Adoreyou adoreyou adoreyou. _The beats crescendo, do a funny dance in his heart. He can feel the pounding in the crease of his elbows and the sides of his wrists, watched as Blaine's eyes flutter shut, count the distance between them in centimeters on one hand.

They're an inch away from one another when Blaine's eyes open and he says, "Kurt."

"Hm?" Kurt hears himself saying.

Blaine shimmies away from Kurt's face with an apologetic smile and motions toward the door.

Dave Karofsky stands there, shocked expression intact, mouth gaping like a fish. "Hope I wasn't..._interrupting_ anything," he chokes out. "I-I..." He searches through his extensive mental database of homophobic slurs. "I-I'm, uh, allergic! To fairy dust!"

"Relax, David," Kurt snaps. "You don't need to pretend around here. It's just Blaine and I."

Cutting straight to the chase, Blaine frowns and asks, "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think? Dave says. "I came here to talk to Hummel."

"I don't know if that's necessary, Dave," Blaine tells him quite reasonably. "I'm staying right here."

"Then Hummel can exit the room so we can talk," Dave says, his teeth grinding together viciously.

Kurt nods. "Okay."

"Okay?" Blaine and Dave echo in unison, the former sounding horrified and the latter sounding completely derailed.

"Okay. I'll go with Dave. If he hurts me, well, we're in a hospital anyway."

Blaine leans into Kurt's ear and murmurs, "Are you sure?" Kurt answers with a simple nod and a playful ruffle of Blaine's hair. "Don't worry, Blaine," he says. "I'll be fine."

There is an unspoken agreement between Blaine and Karofsky that slides past Kurt's notice quite easily, even though Blaine is already broken and nursing a broken arm. His face screams _protector_, and Dave's presence sets off all of his internal alarms, his mind warped around Dave's more questionable past. Dave is offended by Blaine's apparent condescending nature, like he's too good for him. The part of Dave that knows that it's true meekly submits itself to the angrier part of himself. Blaine's not anything, he tells himself. Just a prep school kid too far in over his head.

The floor squeaks when Kurt's boots hit it, and he practically floats outside. Dave shuffles out behind him.

"G-good afternoon, David," Kurt says, leaning against the wall. The tension is too thick. Kurt's fortress of nonchalance is laden with bricks of unbridled fear.

Why?

Dave shrugs and repeats, "Afternoon."

They exchange several more admittedly awkward pleasantries before they get to the actual meat of the conversation.

"Listen, you told anyone other than _him_ that...that you kissed me?"

Kurt holds up a hand. "Okay, first of all, his name is Blaine. Blaine Anderson, and he is perhaps ten times the man you will ever be, sexuality be damned. Second of all, may I remind you that it was _you_ who kissed _me_?"

Dave's eyes shift from left to right and the volume of his voice drops down so low that it's barely perceptible. "Don't be so loud!"

"Sorry, I didn't know that saying the truth wasn't allowed here. Hi, Ashley!" Kurt waves at one of the nurses passing through the hallway. "Looking fabulous, as always."

The nurse smiles cheerily at him and calls out, "Love the cowl-neck on that sweater, dear!"

Dave pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly and surveys Kurt's ensemble of the day—a heavy-knit, cowl-neck sweater and bright red skinny jeans that disappear mid-calf into a pair of white Doc Martens. "D'you have to be like that all the time?"

"Like what?"

"Like...the lovechild of Liberace and Elton John and Neil Patrick Harris—"

Kurt's eyes widen marginally. "Oh. So you _are_ well-versed in gay culture."

"Not really."

"See? Look at us, talking like normal human bei—"

"Stop it!" Dave growls, pressing his hands to his ears. "Stop trying to be friendly with me after what I did to you!"

"And why is that?" Kurt challenges.

Dave jabs his pointer finger into Kurt's chest. "Just...if you tell _anyone_. Anyone else about this..._problem_..."

With a slight inhalation of air, Kurt says, "Then _what_?"

"...I am going to _kill you_." The threat rolls off of Dave's tongue too easily. In comes to him too naturally; he's back in his old frame of mind. "I mean, if you don't bleed out on the street first."

He takes in one look of Kurt's horrified expression and sprints out of the hospital, the gravity of his words still hanging thick in the air.

Suffocating him.

"Kurt? Are you okay?" Blaine calls from the hospital bed.

Kurt's hands fall to his lips, trembling. He says, "I'm...I'm f-fine."

He's not.

.:|:.

**Next up in _Bleeding Love_: The Warblers freak out, Kurt returns to school, and more Hudmel family lusciousness. Blaine's family shall also make an appearance!**

**Oh, Dave. With you it's one step forward and two steps back, isn't it?**

**Please don't forget to make my day even better with a few words of feedback in a review! I try to answer most of the ones with questions. Your ideas do get taken into consideration in terms of story, though, especially with this one, since the plot changes so much! Also, constructive criticism would be MUCH appreciated, as I am trying to learn as much about writing as possible! Basically, this is me tell you all to rip my fic to shreds so I can put it back together again, only on a much smaller scale.**

**Yes. Think about all of the above.**

**Tumblr-ness:**

**paundromat . tumblr . com**


	7. Chapter 7

**READ ME: Hey, guys! Chapter 7 is ready and hot off the press—herein the drama unfolds. Get ready for an angst party! #angsty writer phase**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee, obviously.**

**"HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 7**

.:|:.

"Hey, mophead," Ashley says fondly from the doorway.

Blaine looks up at the smiling nurse with tired eyes and waves her forward. He's been at Lima Memorial for four days now and he's just about ready to be discharged; frankly, he's been there far too long. The whitewashed walls are beginning to swim before his eyes in a chalky haze and he already feels physically weaker. He's taken a few walks around the hospital room with the help of a nurse, but nothing more than that. The extent of his socialization had been with Kurt, who had visited him every day for the past four with a smile on his face and comforting words.

"Ready to get up and out of here?" Ashley asks, crossing the room in long strides and helping Blaine off of the hospital bed. "Careful, there, that rib's still tender."

"Thanks," Blaine says gratefully. "God, I need to get out of this place."

"You can only handle small amounts of the hospital, huh? Blood drives, volunteer work. You get so used to seeing the patients that you forget what it's like to become one as well," Ashley says, quickly helping Blaine out his his hospital gown and pulling a folded stack of clothes from the side table and gingerly tugging the shirt over Blaine's head. "Easy, now."

Blaine laughs, winces at the pain in his rib, and manages wriggle his casted arm through the shirtsleeve. "I'm not a baby, Ashley, wait."

"Then I assume you can get into your pants without—"

Blaine's eyes widen exponentially in panic. "No! No! Wait! Help me with the pants, I can't bend over."

"You are getting spoiled," Ashley accuses tartly, unfolding Blaine's slacks at helping him into them. Blaine awkwardly hobbles through one pants leg, and then the other.

"The Warblers aren't going to know what's up with you," someone says from the other side of the bed—Kurt has arrived, his hair combed neatly into a pompadour and a neat leather bow-tie tied around his neck like a garnish.

"They spoil me already," Blaine corrects, threading his fingers through the belt loops of his pants and tugging up. "Not much to say about that, eh, Kurt?"

Kurt's hip juts out to the side and he chews on the inside of his lip thoughtfully. "No. No, I guess not."

Blaine finishes shakily buttoning up his pants with his right hand and shoves his feet into the loafers at the foot of the bed. "All better," he proclaims, spreading his arms out like the risen Jesus. The casted arm goes up slower than the unbroken one, and Kurt can't help but laugh at the image. "I don't even look like a patient anymore."

Kurt rolls his eyes playfully. "Wash your face, Blaine." He pauses. "My father and your father are in the lobby."

After a quick splash of water onto his face, Blaine is helped out of the room (rather unnecessarily, he thinks to himself) by Kurt and Ashley, who lead him down the elevator and to the lobby. "Kurt, Ashley," Blaine grits through his teeth, "I can walk by myself—"

Ashley cocks her head at Kurt, who seems a little too lost in the feeling of holding Blaine to be paying attention. "How about this, mophead," she offers, letting go of her hold on his right arm, "I let go, but you keep close to Kurt just in case you..._spontaneously_ fall over."

"Or something," Kurt adds dreamily from Blaine's side. Blaine looks down at him suspiciously.

"Hey, kiddo," Burt Hummel greets, standing up in his poorly-upholstered chair and warmly enveloping both boys in a gentle hug. "Blaine, you feeling any better? You look like you're in pain."

"I'm actually fine, just a little sore—" Blaine protests before Richard Anderson clicks a button on the Bluetooth positioned by his ear and strides over from the corner of the lobby.

"Son," he says, nodding abruptly. He turns to Kurt. "Kurt."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson," Kurt and Ashley chorus politely. Kurt sticks out his hand for Mr. Anderson to shake, but he doesn't accept it.

Mr. Anderson brings out a dark, corduroy trench coat. "This is Blaine's to wear. It's cold outside, so," he says gruffly. He holds the coat out for Blaine, who takes it with his right arm and passes it to Kurt, who helps him into it. "When are you getting that cast off again?"

"In about three weeks' time," Ashley answers, leaning over to fix Blaine's collar. "We'll keep checking up on his status here, but he seems to be healing up just fine. Your boy is in great condition, I promise, Mr. Anderson." She presses the palms of her hands together. "Kurt, Blaine. Mr. Hummel and Mr. Anderson. I've got a few rounds to run, so I better be going." She ducks out of the conversation just in time for Burt to throw in, "Richard, Kurt and I were just about to grab something at Breadstix—"

"_Dad_," Kurt scolds, but Burt holds up a hand to silence him.

"—and we were hoping that you guys would, uh, come along."

"As a celebration," Kurt amends.

Blaine turns to his father, eyes deep and cajoling. "I'd like that, father. I've been cooped up here for a while now, and real food sounds great."

"Are you sure you don't want to return home now?" Richard asks, thick eyebrows shooting up on his forehead.

"It's around lunchtime, anyway," Blaine replies.

"I...suppose," Richard says reluctantly. "So we'll just follow your car to this..._Breadstix_?"

Burt nods in unison with Kurt. "Yeah, you can't miss it, it's a big ol' white Chevy," Burt tells him, holding his hands out a foot away from one another for emphasis.

Blaine laughs. "Well, hopefully you'll be able to keep track of Dad's car."

Richard shoots his son a deprecating look. "Just tell them to follow the Mercedes Benz and I'm sure they'll be fine." He leads the Hummels out the lobby of Lima Memorial and to the parking lot, where a hulking, charcoal gray Mercedes Benz awaits them, built like the offspring of a military tank and a sports car.

Burt gulps audibly, eyes raking over the glossy paint and the tinted windows. "Yeah, probably not going to have a difficult time following that," he agrees, exchanging a dark look with his son.

.:|:.

You probably thought you had evaded the last vestiges of the narrator, didn't you?

Here's something you should know about the state of Blaine Anderson and Richard Anderson's relationship: it is not healthy. It is, for the most part, abnormal. But it inexplicably _works_, like an old, battered car that's been through too much just to peter out and break down for good. They've had their spats—many spats, actually—often isolated from Blaine's mother, but by now Blaine has learned to keep his distance from his father. Richard has learned to turn a blind eye to the misadventures of his firstborn son. After all, on paper, Blaine's a ridiculously good kid—straight As with the occasional B in pre-calculus, copious amounts of service hours, lead singer of the Warblers, student at one of the most prestigious high schools in Ohio.

Sometimes he can't help but marvel at the curly-haired little bastard and tell himself, _"I helped make that._"

Blaine, on the other hand, _humors_ his father. He follows what his father tells him to do and stays out of his business otherwise.

But there's not much a self-righteous, self-made, and self-obsessed father can do when everything he's ever dreamed of for his son's future is dashed one spring morning in 2008, when a tiny little Blaine, still stuck in puberty with a voice pitch that changes every half hour approaches him and his wife at the dinner table and tells them, "I'm gay."

Richard hadn't given it much thought at first. "Gay" was a phase. "Gay" was a manifestation of Blaine's adolescent urges, nothing more, nothing less. So Blaine felt attracted to boys. He'd thought to himself that there was a way to fix it, make it all better, cover the topic with sand and never broach it again. Like burying trash in a landfill, Richard had mused.

Instead of flaring up in anger and kicking Blaine out of the house, Richard Anderson had put down his salad fork and told his son, "Let's fix a car."

So at last we come full circle.

A car had been where Blaine's adult life as a homosexual had begun.

It is also, Richard decides as he pulls into the Breadstix parking lot, the place where it would end.

.:|:.

Kurt and Blaine take their own booth away from Burt and Richard, much to Burt's amusement and Richard's annoyance.

"I'm not going to lie, the breadsticks here are actually just the reheated version of cryo-freezed poles made from simple carbohydrates and water," says Kurt with a disgruntled look on his face as he snaps a breadstick in two and dips the pieces into a hot dish of marinara sauce.

"Anything tastes better than old collard greens from the hospital," Blaine replies contently, crunching on a breadstick with obvious relish. He looks down at his left hand, covered in heavy plaster and lying limply at his side. "I'm going to have to get used to that."

Kurt leans over at grabs Blaine's working hand. He gives Blaine a serious look. "Just promise me that you won't let anyone draw on it. There's nothing on this earth more tacky than a dirty cast."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Blaine says with a devilish wink.

"Been there," Kurt mutters morosely as the chipper waitress arrives with a plate of clam linguine for Blaine and risotto for him. Thoughts of Karofsky fill his mind, swirling and twisting gruesomely until his head aches and his heart aches and—

Blaine's voice snaps him out of it. "Kurt! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Kurt says, the situation too reminiscent of what had happened just a day ago at the hospital. _I am going to kill you_. Could Dave Karofsky kill? _That is, if you don't bleed out on the street first_.

Blood.

"Have you ever been scared for your life?" Kurt asks, wondering if he's perhaps being a bit melodramatic and if he's simply overreacting to the entire Dave Karofsky ordeal.

"I can think of one occasion," Blaine teases, heaving his left hand onto the table demonstratively. He sobers after seeing Kurt's disgruntled expression. "Only joking."

"I'm going to try not to laugh at your attempts to eat that," Kurt says, motioning to the clam linguine on Blaine's plate with a wave of his hand.

Blaine takes up the fork in his right hand and clumsily twists strands of pasta around the tines. "Look at me go!" he says excitedly, face lighting up like a child's.

Kurt merely rolls his eyes and laughs.

"It's just sad because I don't know what exactly broke my arm," Blaine adds, placing his fork into his mouth and slurping up the noodles. "But my dad doesn't really want to talk about it."

Kurt smiles tightly and begins picking at the grains of rice in his risotto. "Your dad seems like a powerful man," he says. "Very intelligent, very strong. He must be an amazing inspiration. A hero, so to speak"

Blaine pauses in his clam shucking. "I'm envious of the relationship you have with Mr. Humme—Burt," he admits quietly. "You two can just be yourselves without worrying about anything."

"I'm lucky to have him, yes," Kurt murmurs. "I...he had a heart attack a few months ago. I'm so scared that I'm going to lose him soon."

"You're not," Blaine assures him confidently. "Smile for me?"

Kurt manages a toothy grimace and goes back to stirring his risotto half-heartedly with his fork. "Does it...hurt? Your arm?"

"If I don't move, I can hardly feel anything," Blaine tells him.

_Oh_, Kurt thinks. _You're just like me_.

.:|:.

"So, have you heard?" Tina asks as she walks Kurt to second period European History.

Kurt looks off into the distance, distracted by the influx of letterman jackets in the McKinley halls and the variety of angry faces he sees pointed towards him. "Heard what?" he says, voice more detached than ever.

See, Kurt's fallen into the quicksand for the third time. He's frightened for his life, yes, but that's only one of the proverbial strings of emotion tugging him forward. He recalls the time just two months ago when he had floated around the world, dressed to the nines, head held high. He had been a dreamer, bouncing off of the realities of other people. Since the Karofsky ordeal, since meeting Blaine, since the car crash, Kurt's been tethered to ropes and pulled forward with a sense of urgency.

The first string is fear.

(Of Karofsky.)

The second string is guilt.

(For his father.)

The third string is love.

(For Blaine.)

Tina frowns, and Kurt's eyes dart over to see that the end of her left false eyelash is beginning to come off.

"You're distracted," Tina says, but not in an accusatory tone."Why? Is everything alright with the crash?"

"We have insurance," Kurt explains, even though it's not much in terms of an explanation.

Tina nods and says, "Yeah, so Mr. Schue and Rachel have been spreading the word about those Dalton Academy Warblers pulling out of Sectionals—"

"_What_?" Kurt screeches, stopping in front of the classroom door and nearly dropping his books onto his feet. His face contorts in horror. "Oh, my God."

"Don't shoot the messenger, please," Tina pleads. "I...actually don't really get why you care so much."

Taking deep breaths, Kurt turns to his friend, assumes a cheery smile, and says, "I was just surprised, is all."

"You don't think it has anything to do with Blaine, do you?"

Does he?

Kurt recalls Blaine's words about the Warblers spoiling him, but quickly staves off those thoughts. Too much negative energy would just make it all worse.

"No," Kurt says, and that is that.

.:|:.

Emma Pillsbury looks even more shaken than usual when Dave comes in for his next therapy session. "Good afternoon, David," she squeaks, leaning over her desk to straighten out the pencils on it. "How are we feeling today?"

"Lousy," Dave grunts.

"And why is that?"

"Dunno."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

Emma looks about ready to rip off her ginger hair and knit a baby sweater out of it. "Did something happen in the, um, days I didn't see you?" She reaches into her file drawer. "I have more pamphlets I could set you up with."

"No," Dave mumbles miserably. "Pillsbury?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Have you...ever told someone you wanted to kill them?" Dave leans his round chin on his hand at stares at the cuckoo clock on the wall.

Emma closes her eyes and counts to five. She tries not to panic. "Well, not really," she says. "Um, but it's pretty common for someone your age to say things like that. Normally it's just a figure of speech. It's actually a hyperbole. Which is to say, an exaggeration."

Dave remains silent.

"Dave, are you...are you trying to tell me something?" Emma asks shakily, eyes growing wide and moonlike.

"What would you do to apologize for something like that?" Dave counters, gaze shifting to his hands avoiding Emma's question.

"I'd probably make them a card, or a muffin basket," she says. "Or, you know, a verbal apology would probably be peachy. Something that would mean something to that person."

"Something meaningful?"

Emma stares at the spot in between Dave's eyebrows brazenly. "And sincere," she finishes.

.:|:.

Blaine looks at his classmates—the tall, the short, the fat, the skinny, the polished, and the disheveled—and is positively horrified. "No, absolutely not!" he all but bellows, his blazer feeling uncomfortably tight around the shoulders for the first time in his life. "I _never_ would have minded if you guys had gone ahead with Sectionals. You all have worked too hard for this, and with all due respect, I completely disagree with your decision to pull out. We aren't cowards. We were going to win Sectionals, Regionals, Nationals..."

"Blaine," Wes says gently.

"Don't you know how bad this makes me feel?" Blaine tugs on his sleeve so that more of his cast is covered. "Did you even _stop_ to think about—"

"Blaine, we did it for you, so please," Thad says irritably. "Don't give us this."

"You have all gone insane," Blaine accuses, clasping his hands together and motioning towards Thad. "You are all going to Sectionals without me. I will be in the audience. I will sit with the New Directions to watch you guys perform, and then I will sit with you all to watch the New Directions and that one nursing home group whose name escapes me—"

"The Hipsters," Nick supplies, idly picking at his nails with the cap of his ballpoint pen.

"The Hipsters, then," Blaine agrees. "Go back into the competition." He looks expectantly at Wes, who has taken to thumbing along the handle of his gavel thoughtfully. "Well, Wes?" Blaine asks, motioning with his cast. "Aren't you going to bang that gavel on the table and get us back in the game?"

Wes gives Blaine a gentle, apologetic smile. "Blaine, it was a majority vote. Your word wouldn't have been able to change that."

"Okay," Blaine says, cradling his forehead in his hands. "Do you not hear yourselves right now?"

Thad is the first to stand up. "If I may?"

Wes waves him off tiredly.

"I'm going to be the first to admit that we're scared. The Warblers only really started winning competitions when Blaine became our lead soloist," Thad begins. "We're scared. Or at least, I'm scared. And I refuse to be mocked or sliced open at Sectionals just because we're not at the top of our game."

"We need Warbler Blaine," Jeff concedes, earning a cautionary scowl from David.

"Okay, guys," Blaine says, walking over to the sofa where Trent is sitting and leaning against the arm rest with a slight grunt, "I am _flattered_. But this is...this is _not_ normal. I'm just _Blaine_, I was never the star of this circus—"

"So we go back into Sectionals," Thad spits. "Then what? Who solos? What do we do? Without you, we have an odd amount of Warblers and our formations are _off_. Let me refresh your memory: _Sectionals are this weekend_."

Wes nods gravely. "I'm sorry, Blaine, but it wouldn't have worked."

"Give Nick the solo. Or Jeff. Make it a duet," Blaine cries. "I have a friend's word that the New Directions haven't even _started_ their numbers for Sectionals. Even if we don't win. We'll do it for the experience." He turns to Thad. "Why are you fighting this so hard?"

"Stop, Blaine," David barks. "This isn't an argument anymore. You want to fight it out? Go somewhere else. But we're not arguing about this anymore. We're tired of discussing this matter, and we're doing it for you, so _stop _bitching about it and thank us."

Blaine looks at his feet and bites down on the inside of his cheek. "Thank you," he mutters.

"Welcome back, by the way," David says with a shaky grin, but to his dismay Blaine has already turned away from his friends, has already stormed out of the Commons with long, loud strides.

.:|:.

Dave Karofsky finds himself thinking about going and achieving self-actualization again as he pulls into Lima Memorial for the second time. He mulls the concept over and then decides it's not worth it. Instead, he climbs out of his shitty old Nissan and pops the collar of his letterman jacket. When he arrives at the front desk, he raps his fist against the table and asks for Gabriel; to his surprise, the person at the desk _is_ Gabriel, and Gabriel is _still_ doodling in the margins of his papers.

"You're back," Gabriel says, glancing up from his drawing. "Anderson was just discharged yesterday, I'm not sure whether or not the news got to you—"

"You know how you asked me to save a life or something the last time I talked to you?" Dave interrupts, holding up a meaty hand.

"Yeah, the blood drive," Gabriel says, digging around the mountains of papers piled on his desk and pulling out the clipboard. "This what you're looking for?"

Dave takes the clipboard from Gabriel's hands. "It's to say I'm sorry," Dave explains as he scrawls his bio data on the form in boyish chicken scratch.

"You left your flowers here," Gabriel says. "Last time."

Dave gives him a confused look. "Would you rather have flowers, or have a life saved?"

Gabriel silently ponders the concept, thumbs drumming on his lap. "Life saved," he says with a nod. "So, we'll call you up so you can set up an appointment to get your physical and make sure you're in good enough shape to give blood tonight. And it's cool because we'll tell you about the blood process and what your blood might be used for, Dave."

"Sweet," Dave says distractedly.

"Dave?" Gabriel asks.

"Huh?"

"It's a one o'clock PM on a school day. Are you ditching?"

Dave's eyes search for a clock, find one, and he finds himself biting back a curse word. "Of course not," he says.

It's obvious that it's not the truth, and it's obvious that Gabriel doesn't believe him.

.:|:.

When Kurt meets Blaine at the Lima Bean, he can already feel the dread pooling into his stomach, hot and sticky and unpleasant.

"I take it you've heard," Blaine says shortly. He stirs sugar into his coffee and pops the lid back on. "About the Warblers."

"I'm so sorry," Kurt says blankly. He's not exactly sure what there is to tell Blaine, but for the moment, all he can feel is self-loathing. If he had kept his eyes on the road, if he had been able to control this infatuation with Blaine, _if if if_. If and only if. There are lists of could'ves, should'ves, and would'ves dancing around Kurt's brain, oozing around and teasing him. Kurt looks down at his mocha and cups it in his cold hands.

"I don't really know what to say," Blaine admits, running his hand over his thickly gelled hair and staring pointedly at the cast on the other.

"Are you mad?" Kurt asks quietly. "About the crash?"

Silence reigns. Blaine closes his eyes and slowly sips at his coffee. Kurt chews on his powdered donut, waiting for Blaine's response, but knowing what he's about to say.

Blaine looks at him and tells him in a completely even tone, "I'm furious."

The words bite at Kurt's skin but leave no marks, and he's completely unsurprised at Blaine's answer.

"I'm furious," Blaine repeats, his voice gaining strength, seething. "And I'm mad. And I want to hit something. And the worst part is—"

Kurt shakes himself out of his reverie and pounces back into the conversation, his tongue transforming into something sharp enough to cut through steel. "You told me you were okay with this!" he snaps. "You told me it wasn't my fault!"

"You know what, Kurt?" Blaine asks, voice dangerous and low. "It _was_ your fault. You can dance around the topic all you like, but at the end of the day, the crash was _your fault_."

"No one got hurt," Kurt whispers, bobbing his head back and forth. "No one got hurt—"

"You think that just because no one got hurt that things are okay now?" Blaine demands, gesturing around the cafe. "I'm in a _cast_ and I've just let down my entire _team_, how do you think that makes me feel?" He takes in a deep breath. "You think that there aren't bills to pay? You think we don't have to work through the legal issues of this?"

"You're being ridiculous, Blaine! You knew what we got ourselves into—"

Blaine struggles to keep down the bile in his throat. "Why are you pretending that this isn't a problem?"

"You have no right to be yelling at me, Blaine!" Kurt spits out. "No right whatsoever."

Slamming his hand down on the table and grabbing his coat from the back of his spindly-legged wooden chair, Blaine jolts up from his seat. "Own up, Kurt," he says, angrily tugging his dead arm through the sleeve. "I'm sitting here getting all of the _crap_ from that crash. I've let down my classmates, I don't have a working arm, my dad's furious with me, my mother's gone insane. And you know what? It wasn't my fault. I wasn't the driver." He snatches his coffee cup from the table. "You are. You're sitting here, completely unaware of the consequences, watching everything happen around you like you're in some kind of _bubble_."

Kurt remains speechless, mouth opening to form sentences but bailing out when they're on the brink of being said.

"Grow up, Kurt."

Blaine storms out of the Lima Bean. The baristas watch warily him as he leaves, and there isn't a single person in the coffee shop with sympathetic eyes for Kurt.

.:|:.

Miles away, in Westerville, Ohio, Richard Anderson's car idles in the Dalton Academy priority parking lot. He leans against the calfskin leather of his Mercedes Benz, turns on the jazz station, listens to the rich tones of the saxophone.

He watches the young man clad in a navy blazer with red trim descend from his car, a silver Toyota Land Cruiser with a noticeably crushed-in fender and stark white scratches on the paint job. It's a pitiful sight, really; the car is barely running, and there's a crack edging its way down the windshield.

So this is him. Son of a set of hysteric parents, horrified to hear that he had been at the wrong place, wrong time when some kid named Hummel smashed into him.

Richard sighs heavily and clicks the Bluetooth on his ear twice. He hears steady ringing, holds his breath, and exhales in relief when someone picks up. "Good afternoon, Mallory." he asks, voice rough and weary. "This is Richard Anderson. I'm calling in for a favor." Richard looks up just in time to catch the Dalton boy slam the door of his Toyota shut and limp off in the direction of the Senior Commons.

Garbled noise on the other line, and then, "What is it you need, Richard? An attorney?"

"Yes, an attorney. A car accident attorney. Why do you need to know?" Richard pauses. "It's irrelevant. You owe me one, Mall."

Mallory laughs hollowly. "What, pray, has your son gotten himself into now?"

"Not my son," Richard corrects gravely. "His friend."

"Great crowd he's hanging around," Mallory jokes. "But really, Richard, what's going on?"

"The young man who crashed into Blaine and his friend has a very angry pair of parents right now," Richard says evenly. "They're pressing charges against Kur-Blaine's friend for negligence."

"And was he?"

"Was he what?"

Mallory coughs into the phone and reiterates, "Was Blaine's friend being _negligent _at the wheel, Richard?"

Richard presses his lips together grimly and doesn't answer.

Mallory makes a clucking noise with her tongue. The sound snaps and fizzles over the phone line. "I'll see what I can do, but it probably won't be much." she says finally, and Richard forces himself to close his eyes in an attempt to calm down.

This is the most he can give his son.

.:|:.

**Next up in **_**Bleeding Love**_**: Everything goes to hell.**

**Oh, boy, what does that ending mean? Which Dalton Academy student did Klaine crash into? And why is Mr. Anderson calling for a car accident attorney?**

**Most importantly sajklsdjlkdfj first Klaine fight. Whose side are **_**you**_** on?**

**Thank you so much for your reviews. Reviews just render me...guh...super happy and smiley-like. There's been a drop in review/view count, which makes me nervous, so I'm going to try and make it up for you guys in terms of better content, better writing, etc.!**

**REVIEW! STORY ALERT! FAVORITE!**

**Oh, and check out my Tumblr if you haven't already. I tend to leak Bleeding Love spoilers like no other on there. Also spoilers on upcoming fanfics/chapters.**

**paundromat . tumblr . com**


	8. Chapter 8

**READ ME: Yes, I know, I suck. This took forever to get out, and it's comparatively a very short chapter. But hear me out—this is the story that ran away and it's going in a completely different direction than I thought it would. I'd like to thank my sister, SilverSepulchre, for helping me with her knowledge of law and the judicial system in writing this chapter. So here's a Klaine-centric chapter. As in, **_**very**_** Klaine-centric chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.**

**"HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 7**

.:|:.

The fifth packet of organic toaster strudel sees to a miserable Kurt, curled up in a ball at the foot of his sofa with an old _Friends_ episode blaring out of his tiny flat-screen television. The sixth sees to a still-miserable Kurt curled up in a ball against Finn, who had joined him halfway through the episode after being sent down by a highly confused Burt and a concerned Carole.

"You know, I'm sure he didn't mean it," Finn says timidly, staring at his feet and counting the tears and holes in his tube socks.

"Oh course he meant it!" Kurt replies, voice edging on hysterical as he rips off another chunk of toaster pastry with his teeth and dabs at his mouth with a cotton napkin. "I can't do this anymore! Why are you taking his side?"

"Dude." Finn blinks and holds his hands up in defeat. "Burt told me to come down here to talk with you. I don't want to do that if all you're going to do is, like…yell. At me. And for all I know, I'm sure that Blaine had a point."

Kurt jolts off of Finn's body and catapults himself to the opposite side of the couch. Finn doesn't really dispute it; the touchy-feely aspect of their little comfort session had been, all in all, a tad disconcerting, if not completely mind-boggling. Besides, Finn supposes that he hadn't really been helping that much, anyway.

He's no good at being an older brother.

"I love _Friends_," he says finally, training his eyes on the television screen.

"Touché," Kurt says blankly, reaching for another foil-wrapped pastry and frowning when his hand comes up empty from the carton.

"Phalanges!" Phoebe says.

That's just how their relationship goes.

.:|:.

And this is how things go for Blaine:

"I," Richard says, "do not know what exactly I have been doing, nor do I know what exactly I have gotten myself involved in."

Blaine shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He's sitting across the granite dining-room table with his hands neatly folded, and the stone table-top is just about as inviting as his father's cold stare. Richard's brow furrows in a mixture of disappointment and confusion, and Blaine's own conscience tells him that it's either his fault or Kurt's fault. _It's not my fault_, he reasons, _because it's Kurt's. Or…_

"We're not exactly on the best terms right now, Father," Blaine says finally.

"Oh?" Richard questions, standing up and pacing around. He stops in front of the stainless steel refrigerator, opens the door thoughtfully, and pulls out a plastic bin filled with coffee grounds. "Coffee?"

"Sure?" Blaine says, voice edging on curious. His father only makes him coffee right before serious discussions.

Richard inhales the heady scent of the coffee (fair-trade, Colombia, extra-strong, just the way he likes it), sets out the coffee press, then readies the kettle on the stove. "Blaine, I…" He pauses, clicking through the stove's heat dial until a flame burns full-force. "I've been talking to Burt a lot lately. Kurt's father."

Blaine nods silently, keeping his eyes on the speck of black he finds on the table. He knows what his father's going to say next—_they're riffraff, don't hang out with them anymore, he's a goddamn mechanic, Blaine, we're not even in the same tax bracket_…

But—

"He's an excellent man," Richard says, much to Blaine's surprise. His eyes glance over Blaine's shocked face and he manages to crack a small smile. "Didn't see that one coming, did you?"

"N-no–I–um…_Dad_," Blaine says, standing up and practically sprinting over to hug the man. "You're helping them win the case?"

Richard stiffens before awkwardly patting his son on the back. Physical displays of affection were for Blaine and his mother, not for him and Blaine. But the contact's nice, and of course, Blaine's probably the biggest snugglebear in the entire family, if his interactions with the children at Lima Memorial proved anything at all. Richard feels something click inside of him. He doesn't like the people his son likes. He doesn't necessarily _like_ his son all the time, honestly. But here's the cruel, contradictory rub, reader: he'll always love his son.

"_We're_ helping them win this case," Richard corrects, retracting his arms from around Blaine and curling his hands together. "Together."

"I couldn't possibly—"

Richard gives him his coldest, most professional glare he can muster. "Are you my son or not?"

"I am," Blaine confirms, still looking slightly confused.

"Then you can do this," Richard says firmly. "I'm going to have to ask certain things of you. First order of business: you need to talk to Kurt about it."

Blaine crosses his arms protectively over his chest and rocks back and forth on his heels. Kurt's name sounds sharp, truncated; guilt surges through his body in the same way adrenaline would. Fast and hot and swooping in the chest. "Dad, I don't know if I can—"

Richard says, "There's no use in him not being prepared. Burt's telling him this afternoon. The attorney is visiting tonight."

"Okay," Blaine answers.

"You care about him. Kurt. Don't you?" Richard asks, carefully cutting himself a piece of coffee cake from the bread box and closing his eyes.

"Too much," Blaine admits, his heart feeling like it's running on blood ten times too thin.

Richard sets the butter knife down and takes in a deep breath.

Blaine nods distractedly, and far away, his mind registers the sound of the kettle whistling.

.:|:.

Mr. Schuester rubs his palms together, strides up to the whiteboard, and writes "SECTIONALS" on it in bright, blood-red ink. "Red," he announces, looking more and more excited as Kurt's face grows more and more disheartened. "The color of victory. The color of the cheeks of the competition when we defeat them this weekend at Sectionals—"

"Mr. Schue?" Rachel asks, putting her hand up and speaking before Mr. Schuester can call on her. "With all due respect, I'd like to discuss some heart-wrenching ballads I could perform this week at Sectionals. Now," she continues, standing up in her seat and pulling out a laminated folder from under her chair, "I put together a small presentation of the songs I have selected that are tailored to perfectly fit my range and I believe that—"

"Rachel," Mr. Schuester interrupts, putting his palms up in the air. He motions around the choir room, eyes skimming over Tina, Mike, Santana, Brittany, Sam…"We're a team, remember? We have to work together on this. I'm sure…I'm sure your portfolio of songs is _excellent_, but this round, I'd really enjoy showcasing some other talent in this group."

Santana beams and claps her hands lightly. "Fantastic, Mr. Schue," she drawls, hooking her legs around Brittany's. "I'm glad that you've finally decided to get your head out of your—"

"What I think Mr. Schue's trying to say," Mercedes says smoothly, holding up her pointer finger, "is that we've got a real Beyonce on our hands. Me." Tina gives her a small smile and high-fives her.

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Brittany murmurs, putting her hands over her ears. "I'm more talented than all of you combined."

Puck's brow creases. "Wait—what?"

"I can't hear you," Brittany explains, indicating her covered ears, "but if I could, I'd tell you that it's true."

Kurt can't take it anymore. He's selfish. They're selfish. Why was everyone being so selfish? "Excuse me," he half-whispers under his breath.

"You're all vaguely disillusioned and possibly overcome with premature senility," Rachel yammers on, eyes bright and animated like a cartoon. "Because—"

"I said _excuse me_!" Kurt shouts, voice pitching above the chaos.

The room quiets immediately. Mr. Schuester wordlessly places his whiteboard marker back on the ledge and looks at him, eyes alight with concern and confusion. Finn blinks and mouths, "_Are you okay_?", Quinn's mouth opens and closes several times, Rachel stops speaking mid-sentence and is left looking like a gaping fish. Mercedes leans over and pats him on the hand—he flinches away almost immediately.

"I haven't been feeling well," Kurt says in a small voice. "You know about the crash and you know about my condition, and I haven't been feeling well."

Sam nods sympathetically. "Dude, we have your back. I know it's been rough here lately—"

"The Warblers lost their lead singer and now they've pulled out of the competition," Kurt continues. "I'd just like to remind you that centering our performance around person might not be the best idea."

Rachel's mandible falls, and Kurt's surprised he can't hear the actual clatter of the bones. "B-b-but…it's what _works_—"

Mr. Schuester nods firmly, silencing Rachel with a single word. "Kurt has a point. We really need to highlight other talent in this group and really show those judges who the McKinley High New Directions really _are_."

"I…guess I can see your point," Rachel sniffs, posture treating inwards. Kurt doesn't really know what to feel about Rachel's propensity for racking up all the solos in Glee club—she's definitely talented (arguably not as talented as himself, however) and has great stage presence—because all he feels, really, is _tired_. Everything that Rachel's been saying has just been taxing him lately, including the concerned, "Did the Warblers…_really_ drop out of the competition, Kurt?" that she adds not thirty seconds later. "I mean, I thought it had been one of those dramatic break-up-slash-break-up situations wherein stars flake out right before big performances in order to have the word spread around right before making a _triumphant_ comeback on the Broadway stage? That's the only reason I spread the news about it."

"Been there," Brittany remarks.

"Ah," Mr. Schuester says, clapping his hands together. "I was just going to address that. Since the Dalton Academy Warblers dropped out, they're merging our competition with Ohio's second regional division."

That's all the confirmation the Glee club needs.

"Now, I'd advise everyone not to worry," Mr. Schuester says, gesturing to Brad, who's been sitting at the piano for the length of the meeting with a look of utter sobriety on his face. "Vocal Adrenaline's off the radar until Regionals. But we _are_ going to need to step up our game, so I had Brad put together a few arrangements for us." He holds up a finger. "You might be nervous now, but I have complete and utter faith in you guys."

Kurt settles back into his seat again and proceeds to blend into the background as his friends insist upon squabbling over solos and figuring out how to give Rachel and Mercedes the biggest, beltiest notes. In some respects it amuses him; Mercedes has a great voice that _needed_ to be shown off and scores of soap operas could be written about Rachel's ambition, but inside he knows that he's much too fragile for intense choreography and that he'll probably end up cabbage-patching in the corner with Artie while Brittany and Mike gyrate around the stage like a handful of toy jacks.

What surprises him most, though, is not the fact that they're merging the competition. It makes sense, after all; a competition against a group of seventy-somethings working towards their GEDs was nothing short of a joke, even for the New Directions. It's the fact that Mr. Schuester's actually trying to make the experience of not being the strongman of the group not as crappy as it used to be. Santana graciously picks up an arrangement of Winehouse's _Valerie_ with as much bravado as Schuester would allow, and Sam and Quinn, as victors from the last duet competition, are chosen to do a kitschy and waspy (albeit adorable) arrangement of _Time Of My Life_. Kurt doesn't even bother telling the Glee club that the contrast between the two's too sharp and unforgiving for a competitive audience.

At the end of the period, Kurt mechanically gets up, straightens his pants, and loops his messenger bag over his shoulder. He makes sure he's the last to leave the choir room so that nobody can follow him, and he walks out alone.

The glee club is used to Kurt's random bouts of ennui, and no one thinks too much of it. _He_ doesn't think too much of it. It's become too commonplace, anyway, to be alarmed by it at all.

So he sets himself on autopilot. He goes to his locker, extracts his math and science textbook, slips them into his messenger bag. Closes the locker, makes sure the door's locked tight so no Neanderthals can put dirt inside it again. Goes to the parking lot, waits for his dad to pick him up curbside. Realizes he hasn't had his father drive him home from school since the beginning of sophomore year.

When a charcoal gray Mercedes Benz pulls up right in front of him and the window rolls down to reveal a stern-looking Mr. Anderson in the driver's seat and a sheepish, embarrassed Blaine sitting in the back, small and hunched over his knees, Kurt's eyes rake up immediately. The window's rolled down just enough to reveal a stern-looking Mr. Anderson in the driver's seat and a sheepish, embarrassed Blaine sitting in the back, small and hunched over his knees. There's an unfamiliar, hard-faced woman in a pinstriped shirt taking up shotgun and drumming her fingers against the lush interior of the car.

"Get in the car," she barks.

"What Jane _means_ to say," Blaine says, eying the woman carefully. "Is that we're taking you over to our house to talk to you."

Kurt just stands there and gapes. "What if I don't want to—"

"Kurt, please," Blaine pleads, eyes looking all twinkling and earnest, and even though Kurt's mad he can't really say no—

He gets into the car.

The leather-covered interior smells like Pine-Sol.

Also defeat.

.:|:.

"Your father is aware," Richard begins, setting a mug of coffee before Kurt, "of your whereabouts. So of course you're staying for dinner."

The woman Blaine had called Jane sits down on the stool beside Kurt and crosses her legs. Every movement she makes is so angular that Kurt wonders if it's a conscious thing or not.

"Who's this?" Kurt asks curiously, motioning towards Jane.

"Jane Haas," she answers, holding out her hand stiffly. "Personal injury attorney. I'm working with your case pro-bono." She pauses. "That means I'm doing it for_ free_."

Kurt doesn't take her hand and instead eyes the appendage very suspiciously. He stares at Jane, taking in her no-nonsense haircut and the collared shirt that's neatly tucked into a pair of black pants that go up to her hips. Her face looks like it could be sweet if not for the murderous expressions she's been pulling for the past hour, but her eyes are lit with the flame of intelligence that makes Kurt want to hide his face away. To his left sits Blaine, who catches his eyes for a second, mouthing, "_We need to talk_."

Finally, Kurt musters up enough chutzpah to shake Jane's hand. Her handshake is vigorous and unyielding. "Kurt Hummel. Student, counter-tenor, and amateur stylist. I know what pro-bono means," he says, rather weakly.

Jane nods encouragingly and unlatches her briefcase, displaying stacks and stacks of papers and folders and files. "In law," she begins abruptly, "there is no improvisation. We will show up in court and put up a good fight. Many would highly doubt that we're going to win this case because you were obviously being negligent at the wheel. But that's not going to happen because I," she sets down a folder and makes a show of slamming her briefcase shut, "will tell you _what_ to say," another bang as she drops her briefcase to the floor, "_how_ to say it," a scratch as she scoots her chair closer to the table, "and _when_ to say it."

"Um," Kurt says intelligently.

"Listen, Kurt," Jane says in a considerably softer tone. "I like you. I think your backstory is fascinating. But you need to take some responsibility."

Kurt nods.

"There is a stigma," Jane continues, and Kurt can feel another angry monologue coming on, "associated with personal injury attorneys." Jesus, this girl was just like Sue Sylvester with her non-sequiturs. "They call us ambulance chasers."

Richard Anderson actually _sniggers_ from behind his newspaper.

"That's largely incorrect. If anything, those ambulances?" Her eyes glitter impishly in the lamplight. "They chase us."

.:|:.

David Karofsky sits in a room that reeks of sterility and cleanliness with a rubber tourniquet wound tightly around his bicep. He can feel the blood rushing to his arm and watches as the vein in the crease of his elbow grows fat and blue.

Blood's disgusting. He's seen cases of it appearing on the football field after guys get clocked too hard, dribbling out of his teammates' noses and bubbling up between split lips; the concept of it nauseates himself so much that he feels like his innards are turning a complete cartwheel. It stinks, it doesn't wash out of jerseys, the color is loud and obnoxious. It's right up there with urine and semen, in his book.

He really doesn't get why he spends so much of his time trying to make others bleed by shoving them into lockers. He supposes that it's just an instinctual thing.

"Hello, Dave," Dr. Paulsen greets from the door. She has a packaged syringe with her and an assortment of other tools that Dave can't name—a winding, straw-like device, a flat plastic bag, several test tubes with rubber stoppers. "Are you afraid of needles?"

That's the first thing she asks? Eerie.

"Of course not," Dave answers confidently, with a smirk. In actuality, he doesn't really know—he can't recall the last time he got a shot, and he's never done drugs or steroids like some of the other guys on the football team.

Jennie Paulsen is pretty for a doctor, with sparkling brown eyes and a nice nose. She smiles at him warmly as if Dave's just missed some huge inside joke. "Really? We'll see what happens. Everyone reacts differently when it comes to donating blood. I'm just happy that you're here for the cause."

When the needle goes in, it doesn't feel like much. It's just a sting and a strange sensation of being broken through and punctured. Most of the discomfort is just nerves, Dave reasons, looking straight forward, and he's dealt with much worse on the football field. It's when he looks down at the network of catheters, red liquid swirling and dancing around in the tubes and winding up God-knows-where that Dave feels like fainting. It's a macabre performance, sanguine in its gruesomeness.

He faints right after Jennie extracts the needle, slaps on a cotton ball, and winds medical tape around the area.

"We have a fainter," Jennie calls out the door calmly, and Ashley scurries in and helps him to the waiting area, armed with an oatmeal cookie and a glass full of orange juice.

.:|:.

Blaine takes Kurt up to his room after he's finished meeting Jane for the first time. The vestiges of Kurt's fear are gone, and his cheeks are rosy and lively again. Blaine figures it's the best time to approach him and get involved in serious conversation now.

"I'm sorry," they both say at the same time, and then look away from each other awkwardly.

"I just—" Blaine starts.

"It's all my fault—" Kurt says.

They stand in silence. Blaine's room is painted an understated beige, with no-nonsense furniture pressed up against the walls and a disproportionately enormous bed set up halfway. One wall seemed entirely made of memories: brown cork-board stabbed through with thumbtacks holding up pictures of Blaine with the Warblers, his family, the hospital. Kurt sees one picture of him and Blaine together in the hospital and his heart feels like it's going to stop.

Blaine collapses onto his (hideous, Kurt thinks) tartan couch, and Kurt follows.

"You were right," Kurt says ruefully. "I was being careless."

"I'm sorry I had to tell you that way, though," Blaine replies, shaking his head, leaning forward, and balancing his forehead on his fingers. "In front of all those people. In a public setting. In _such_ an angry way."

"No one's ever talked to me like that before," Kurt murmurs, pressing his thumb to his lips. "Ever since I was little, everyone was always really gentle with me. I mean, other than the students at McKinley. But even then…they hurt me physically. Never emotionally."

Blaine presses his lips together.

"Would it…" Kurt says, voice trailing off. "Would it be strange if I said that I'm glad it was _you_? Who…told me the truth? For the first time?"

Blaine cocks his head to the side in confusion. "Why's that?"

"I trust you," Kurt confesses, standing up and wandering off towards the wall of photos. He smiles softly at a picture of a much younger Blaine at what looks like a junior mock trial event and traces the little suit and shiny Oxfords that look too big on his Little Blaine's feet. "Even though I haven't known you for a very long time, I trust you." He waits until he can feel Blaine's presence behind him. "What's that a picture of?" He points at a photograph of Blaine, wearing a neatly ironed Dalton uniform, and a smiling woman.

"That's my mother," Blaine says. "She's out of town at the moment. We took that on my first day at Dalton."

"And is that…Ashley?" Kurt asks, barely stifling a laugh. The picture is of Blaine and Ashley at some kind of Halloween party; Blaine's wearing teal green doctor's scrubs, while Ashley's got her knee up and is wearing a stereotypical sexy nurse outfit from the local K-Mart, complete with a tiny nurse's hat and stethoscope. In the picture, both of them smile through their ridiculousness.

"The theme of the party was irony," Blaine says gravely.

Kurt and Blaine go through each of the photos—"that's my dad and I at my first mock trial competition," "that's me and my cousin playing together, God, five years ago?" "that's me getting baptized," "that was my first Warbler solo"…

"How about this one?" Kurt asks, pointing to a picture of a Blaine a little bit younger than the present Blaine, wearing a nice collared shirt with a pair of slacks and laughing with another boy, sandy-haired and smiling.

"Sadie Hawkins," Blaine says quietly, instantly averting his eyes.

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, sore spot. I–I forgot I still had that picture."

Kurt rocks on his heels. He doesn't want to intrude, and he leaves it at that.

Blaine silently goes back to the couch and Kurt follows.

"Thanks for everything," Kurt says earnestly. The tension is palpable, thicker than anything, and it would be so, _so_ easy to just lean forward and kiss Blaine. Alone, in a room, no one watching. Not like it had been in the hospital.

"We're going to be fine with this case," Blaine says, placing his hand on Kurt's shoulder.

Kurt doesn't move, and neither does Blaine.

This isn't something he should want.

He _shouldn't_ want to kiss Blaine, not after what's happened with Karofsky, not in the midst of a law battle, and definitely _not_ with the words of Karofsky's threat still hanging over him. Kurt should be taking this seriously—he's already heard his father's rant about the inconsistency of lawyers. He should be keeping on his toes and making sure that nothing goes awry. Blaine's been a source of light for him for what seems like an eternity, but in actuality, it's only been a few months. Kurt should be _chastising_ himself for getting so involved so quickly.

But even then, there's something in Blaine's expression that tells him he's on the same page as Kurt is.

Blaine inhales sharply and says, "Could I…"

_You can_, Kurt answers mentally, and then he presses his lips to Blaine's tentatively, softly. Because he's never really done this before, and Blaine is too important to lose. Because he just _wants to_. So much of it (because for how long has he been pining after Blaine?) and so little of it (because he's scared and what exactly is he supposed to do with his hands again?) at the same time. Because Blaine's mouth is warm and gentle and safe. _Love you_.

Reader, have you ever been in love?

Blaine leans up and tenderly cups Kurt's cheek in his hand.

I haven't. Not yet. Not really.

Their torsos move back and forth, trying to get closer, until Kurt gently pulls Blaine up and deepens the kiss.

And they pick up where they had left off in the hospital.

.:|:.

And _yes_, they don't go past kissing.

.:|:.

Jane Haas sighs loudly and reclines in her office chair. Her cat, Annabel, sits atop her desk, watching her warily, pupils dilated in amusement, and she reaches over to pet at its soft, fluffy ears. True happiness, embodied in the form of a chubby, attention-seeking tuxedo cat.

The door slams shut just as Richard Anderson enters, wearing a sharply tailored suit and grim wrinkles around his mouth.

End true happiness. Back to lawyer mode. Jane sits up ramrod-straight so fast it's almost comical. Annabel releases a harsh screech before calming down, stretching out on a manila envelope labeled "_BILLS/IMPORTANT PAPERS_", and promptly falling asleep.

"Everything alright in here, Jane?" Richard inquires, toeing a tin of cat food delicately away from himself so he can step forward without encountering any further resistance. "Cat."

"Yeah, things are alright. I've just been interviewing the boy and gleaning any material from this case. The Vassars aren't going to make this easy for us," Jane says, mouth twisting unpleasantly around the surname of the plaintiff. "They've practically got this one in the bag, but tonight I'm going to examine some of the video evidence taken by one of the street cameras."

"Surely there must be something you can do," Richard reasons, purposely avoiding the unsettling glare of the cat.

Jane looks at Richard over her glasses skeptically and quirks her lips together. "You know much better than that, Mr. Anderson. I've got a lot of respect for you and your family, and _I_ know that _you_ know that _I_ know that _you_ know _much_ better than that."

"Pardon?"

At that moment, Blaine hops into the little office and stops by the desk, effectively cutting off the conversation with a bright, "Hello, Father!" and then a blunt, "Jane."

"Blaine," Jane acknowledges, not at all affably.

"Cat," Blaine adds, cocking his head towards Annabel, just to be polite.

"So, Jane," Richard says, "Blaine and I are here for information regarding the key witnesses that have been chosen for—"

Annabel begins retching up a hairball right there on the desk, coughing and spitting, and Blaine, looking disgusted, jumps backward and away from the cat. Once Annabel's finished gagging up the hairball, she settles down again, looking amused. Jane isn't even vaguely disturbed. "Shut up, Mr. Anderson, more important matters," she interrupts, grabbing her phone from the cradle and punching in a number. "We're going to need a maid up in here. _Yes_, again. Okay. Thank you."

Richard looks amazed, and Blaine just stares at the cat and wonders what about it makes it more important than a law case.

Jane doesn't even try to look apologetic. "I'm the best that you can get," she says, putting the phone back placidly and taking a cat hair roller to the scores of tiny hairs peppering the top of her desk. "Unfortunately, Annabel's a package deal."

"Okay," Blaine says, struggling to keep his voice level. "Can the Hummels come in now?"

Jane busies herself with extracting more cat hair from her desk. "Sure," she says distractedly.

Kurt and Burt Hummel appear at the door, eyes comically large as they take in the massive hairball, Annabel, the cat hair roller, and the attorney who's currently using it.

"Cat," Kurt says quizzically. Both Blaine and Richard shrug—they don't even bother questioning it anymore.

"That seems to be the general consensus of the afternoon," Richard agrees solemnly.

"Anyway," Jane says, placing the roller back in her desk drawer. "Good afternoon, Kurt and Mr. Hummel. I assure you that things are going just _swimmingly_ with this case."

Burt makes a gruff coughing noise. "Is there a reason that they shouldn't be?"

Jane and Richard exchange a quick, bleak look.

"Here's the thing, Mr. Hummel," Jane says at long last, leaning forward on her hands and unintentionally disturbing another haphazard pile of paper on her desk. She licks her index finger and thumbs through several files, finally pulling one out and setting it in front of an incredulous Burt. "I've been doing a bit of digging around your personal history—might I add that your sons are both quite talented—and I believe your family is…shall we say…_acquainted_ with one of the key witnesses for this case."

Kurt leans over, scans the page, and almost collapses on the spot. He takes in the image of the vintage LeCar, the harsh blond haircut, the unforgiving black stopwatch that for so long had plagued his nightmares with its incessant beeping.

"That's—"

"Sue Sylvester."

.:|:.

**Next up in **_**Bleeding Love**_**: **Kurt and Blaine discuss their relationship, Jane the cat-loving attorney digs up some dirt better than Jewfro, and Sectionals.

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	9. Chapter 9

**READ ME: Am I actually…updating something…ON TIME? I think I am.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee.**

**"HEMOPHILIA"**

**Ch. 9**

"My only advice to you," Jane says to Richard as she massages Annabel's bulging, furry stomach with both of her hands, "is to pull the hell out of this case."

"That's not happening," Richard replies tartly. "We're not pulling out of the case, Jane."

Rolling her thumbs along Annabel's fur with the confidence of a master masseuse, Jane merely shrugs and sticks another piece of gum into her mouth. "Your funeral," she says, in between definitive chomps on her gum. "It's something to think about, don't you think?"

"No, it isn't," Richard says gravely. "Blaine's staying as a witness."

"And why's that?" Jane asks, voice even and methodical. "You don't seem to care that much for…for Kurt, or for his father. Why?"

Richard eyes Annabel bitterly and laughs. "You've never had a child before, have you?"

Jane blinks rapidly and ceases in her massaging of Annabel's abdomen. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Anderson," she says piously, clasping her hand to her chest. "On how many occasions have you massaged Blaine's intestines in order to relieve him of acute constipation?"

"I just—I just normally give him some Pepto-Bismol or some laxatives, Jane—"

Jane calmly sets Annabel down at her feet and stares directly at Richard. "Oh?" she asks innocently. "So you'd rather give him stomach ulcers?"

"It's not the same thing," Richard hedges firmly, scowling when he sees Jane's bemused expression. "It's _not_."

"If Annabel had a broken paw, I'd be beside myself in terror," she announces. "Just saying."

"That's because she's a _cat_," Richard argues. "Blaine is a _young man_ who can deal with these things."

"Look," Jane says, after some consideration. "I need you to think about what your son means to _you_. What makes _him_ happy. You can masquerade around all you want—you can pretend that you're staying in this case for yourself. You can tell yourself that you're helping the Hummel family for the sake of good citizenship or pride or what the hell ever."

Richard crosses his arms over his chest. "What are you trying to suggest?"

"You love your son," Jane says, in so accusatory a tone that Richard can't find the words to respond; is loving his son a crime? "And you, through proxy, love the people that he loves." Annabel meows and scratches at Jane's feet and she gamely pulls up the cat into her arms. "Think about it."

.:|:.

Kurt Hummel is sure of several things:

One, he's got an eye for fashion so large that there exists no pair of spectacles that can fit over it.

Two, through some stroke of luck or entanglement of fate, he's obtained the most loving, supportive father ever to grace the planet.

Three, his condition as a hemophiliac has barred him from pursuing so many of his dreams that he's pretty much given up on trying.

Case in point? The Cheerios. National champions, cheerleading legends, the whole bit. It had broken his heart when Mercedes had joined without him in his sophomore year, never mind that _Four Minutes_ just sounded ridiculous as a power ballad rather than as a duet. He should have been there with her, belting out, "_Time is waiting!"_ amid her cries of, "_We only got four minutes to save the world!"_

Kurt's aware that he's more than capable in the realm of flexibility and talent—he can do his Russian splits and pull his ankles behind his neck just about as well as anyone, thanks to natural bendiness and biweekly yoga classes—but he also knows that cheerleading is dangerous for people like him. Too many opportunities to fall off the pyramid, both metaphorically and literally speaking, and break a limb. That being said, what a way to go—collapsing from atop a human pyramid or looping out of an aerial flip the wrong way. So much more impressive than the way his life's headed, a quiet life with a mediocre college degree under his Prada belt that ends with an unfortunate blood infusion mix-up and his own body attacking his cells.

Now, he finds himself standing in front of Coach Sylvester's office with a new sense of trepidation thrumming through his heart.

"Come on in, Porcelain, I can smell the polymers from your hairspray already," Sue says pleasantly from within her office.

Kurt steps into the office and manages to get himself in front of her desk. The room is dark and reeks of chocolate protein powder.

"I am aware," Sue says, closing the notebook that had been open in front of her, "that you were in a car crash the other day."

"You're one of the key witnesses for the ca—" Kurt starts.

"First I was aroused," Sue interrupts, and she folds her hands together and holds Kurt's gaze. "Then, I was deeply offended. You don't know how lucky you are that it wasn't my vintage LeCar the hulking tank you call a motor vehicle ripped a hole through." She pauses thoughtfully. "I would have sued you. But you're already getting sued, anyway, so it's unnecessary. I have nothing to gain from you losing this case. Your sad excuse for a Glee club has already alienated you enough, Porcelain, and frankly, I could feel my serotonin levels dropping the second you walked into my office. You're miserable, aren't you?"

Kurt smiles wanly, mind percolating with thoughts of Blaine and his smile and his oddly square jaw. "It's not as bad as it used to be," he admits, waving his arm dismissively. "My life is less _Les Mis_ than it used to be."

"Ah," Sue remarks. "_Spring Awakening_?"

"_RENT_," Kurt corrects, thinking about the hemophilia in his blood instead of the AIDS that plagued Roger, Mimi, Collins, and Angel's. "Or possibly _Repo! The Genetic Opera_."

A moment of companionable silence falls between the two of them until Sue finally straightens in her chair and says, "I'll be in court. Testifying. For your case."

"Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately," Sue murmurs pensively. "I haven't been in court since I testified for O.J. Simpson during _his _trial."

"What?"

"Now get out of my office."

Kurt walks off campus and into the passenger seat of Finn's ratty truck with a new outlook on life. He doesn't say a word to Finn and doesn't complain when Finn blasts the car air conditioner so high that the smell of tepid water fills the air, and his face nearly splits in half with the size of his grin when he sees Blaine's familiar Lexus parked in the driveway of his house once they arrive. Finn can't stop him from practically running up the steps and into the kitchen, where his father and Blaine are seated, taking sips of orange juice in between bouts of decidedly awkward conversation.

"You and Kurt, huh?" Kurt can hear as he approaches them.

"Kurt and I," Blaine agrees, just as Kurt stumbles into the kitchen.

"You're good for him, kid, but I can't say I'm too thrilled about the idea," Burt says solemnly. He motions to Kurt. "We're going to talk tonight. You and me. Okay?"

"Okay, Dad," Kurt mutters his assent, eyes trained on the floor. "Can Blaine and I do our homework in my room?"

Burt presses his lips together and cocks an eyebrow dubiously. "Door open."

Kurt nods. "Door open."

.:|:.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Kurt says unceremoniously as he mounts his bed, Blaine at his side.

"What do you mean?" Blaine asks, reaching out to hold Kurt's hand. "I like you a lot, Kurt, I don't see why we shouldn't be—"

"Blaine," Kurt says, squeezing Blaine's hand gently. "I like you, too. And I didn't say I didn't _want_ to be doing this."

Blaine looks down at where their hands are intertwined, eyes full of sadness. "But we shouldn't be."

Kurt shakes his head and leans up against the headboard, motioning for Blaine to join him. Blaine acquiesces, lying on his back and keeping his hand on Kurt's. "When you agreed to play a key witness in the case," Kurt says, "were you doing it for me? Or were you doing it because you thought it was…right?"

"Kurt," Blaine singsongs. "You sound like a lawyer."

"_Blaine_."

Blaine sighs. "I don't want to answer that."

Kurt blinks. "Why?"

"You're going to say that I'm wrong either way," Blaine murmurs, curling in on his side. He tilts his head to the side and lifts his casted arm out of the way. "Is this okay?"

Kurt nods in assent, and Blaine presses himself closer to Kurt, who traces shapes in his cast thoughtfully.

"The short answer is that yes, I'm doing it for you," Blaine muses. "The long answer is that I'm doing it for you because doing it for you feels _right_. Don't you think?"

Kurt doesn't reply. Instead, he leans forward to press his lips against Blaine's, just for a fleeting moment, relishing the feeling of being close to him. When he pulls away, Blaine's face contorts into an expression that is unmistakably sorrowful. "When I first met you," Blaine begins, shifting his position so that he's lying on his back, "I thought you were unique. So…different from everyone else I'd known. You dressed so well and you carried yourself so highly, and we first met in a _hospital_. I don't know how you managed to win me over in a hospital gown—"

"They don't cover the ass, Blaine," Kurt remarks dryly.

"—but you did. And I thought you were amazing. But you seemed to think you were…_damaged goods_, or something, and the Karofsky debacle sort of solidified that belief. And I got to learn more about you. Learn about the way you interact with the world, just by watching you play with some leukemia kids or serve punch. And I didn't really _want_ to say anything. I didn't want to mess things up." He pauses. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because," Kurt says softly, carefully watching Blaine's face. "I can't do this."

Pulling away for a moment, Blaine scrunches his face up in consternation and angles himself away from Kurt. "What?"

"I want to get through this," Kurt says. "I want to face my fears. I want to face the consequences of my actions, and I can't do that…"

"With me constantly at your side?" Blaine asks, perplexed. "Am I overprotective? Do you want me to—"

Kurt strokes Blaine's cheek with the back of his hand. "No," he disagrees with a fond smile. "I want to be someone you deserve."

.:|:.

_An Excerpt from Jane Haas' Video Diary: Day I_

"This is ridiculous. This car crash is absolutely _ridiculous_. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Hi, my name is Jane Haas. Thirty-two years old, graduate of Ohio State University. I'm in Lima doing some pro-bono work because Mallory gave me a call telling me about the case of one Burt Hummel, a middle-aged Lima mechanic with a son that's gotten into a bit of hot water. Richard Anderson, she said, was well-acquainted with the family—oh dear God, well-acquainted my _ass_, he's only helping because of his son, Blaine—and so I took the case, and it's pretty much a death wish for any established attorney.

"So here's the logistics of the car crash that people don't want you to know, especially the plaintiff. That'd be the son of the Vassars, a wealthy family who lives on the outskirts of Westerville, Ohio, in one of those sprawling mansion-type homes with a huge garden complete with porcelain garden gnomes and miniature bird baths. The whole bit.

"Annabel! Come up here, sweetie. D'aw, isn't she cute? She's cute.

"Anyway, so yeah, the logistics of the car crash. I'm not too sure what was going through Kurt's—that's Burt Hummel's son's name—mind when this all went down, because he was just being a _dumbass_ and he ran a red light. Typical teenage driver, and it's something that you see every day. But here's the kicker—Kurt's a bloody _hemophiliac_. He can't _get_ into car accidents. He can't even get a fucking _paper cut_. And in the passenger seat? None other than Richard's son, Blaine Anderson. Lovely boy, good grades, lead singer at the glee club in his school. Yeah, both Kurt and Blaine are the artsy type, and out as homosexuals.

"It makes for an interesting case, especially since Kurt wasn't even the one who was really injured. Blaine Anderson came out of the crash with a broken arm—ostensibly thrown out at last minute to protect Kurt's ribcage from being pummeled by the airbags, but that's just a crazy theory of mine I've been working on. Neither of the boys seem to remember much about the details of the crash. There was some pretty notable damage done on both sides—Kurt was driving a 2009 Lincoln Navigator that got crushed up in the front and the Vassar kid was driving a 2004 Land Cruiser that got seriously scratched up. The Land Cruiser's barely running now, and the parents pressed charges.

"Here's the thing, though: as it turns out, the Vassars aren't completely clean of any wrongdoings, either. The kid was turning on a red light, and that's why Kurt ended up crashing into him so fast.

"Is this case still a death wish? Sure. But at least I have an argument now. And weak arguments aside, we've got some nice witnesses as well. Sue Sylvester, the best cheerleading coach in the nation, is joining the case, too. What can I say? I live for the thrill."

.:|:.

"You and Blaine?"

"Dad, the crisis is resolved. I ended it, so if you could please put away the shotgun whenever he's in the same room as me, I'd be really grateful."

"That was…fast."

"Romance is fast, dad, it's what shows like _The Bachelor_ run on."

"I'm kind of confused, and I'd really like it if you toned down the sarcasm, kid."

"I like Blaine. He likes me. We're just putting things on hold for a while. What's there to be confused about?"

"You being mature, maybe?"

.:|:.

Sectionals are difficult to stomach for both Kurt, who blends into the background in his all-black ensemble, and Blaine, who wears his Dalton uniform just for the sake of solidarity and comes to the competition with a fat smile on his face that belongs only to Kurt, even though he's not even being featured in a solo. Sam and Quinn are lovely in their duet, selling it with all of the cutesy, blond attractiveness they can gather. Santana wears a tiny, Victorian style hat and manages to rasp through two minutes of Brittany smacking her on the ass in between "_And I miss your ginger hair," _and "_Are you busy?_"

Blaine watches and claps politely when the New Directions are finished. He tries not to be bitter about the fact that Kurt wasn't even given one sliver of a solo. That being said, he's pretty impressed by the severe lack of Rachel Berry and Mercedes Jones in the number—they're the typical New Directions breadwinners, and normally their singing is featured in songs that they're not even soloists in, but Blaine couldn't even detect Rachel's belting or Mercedes' wailing over Santana's voice.

It doesn't surprise Blaine, then, when New Directions wins, beating out the Hipsters (Blaine feels a pang of guilt at that—he's familiar with some of the Hipsters, and their set had been pleasing to listen to), the Haverbrook School for the Deaf (again, another pang—Blaine's known some of the kids in _that_ choir from Lima Memorial), and the Jane Addams Academy (Blaine doesn't feel much for them, since the choir's comprised mainly of girls gyrating around and selling sexual appeal to the highly unimpressed judges. Also, he has no idea who any of the girls are.)

"It doesn't come as much of a shock, does it?" someone asks from behind him.

"Sorry?"

"That the New Directions won. Their camaraderie is just…_such_ a presence."

Blaine jerks to the side in order to look at who's talking to him. "Thad?"

"Hey, Blaine," Thad Vassar says, running his hand through his hair sheepishly. "I'm glad you could make it." He gestures to his own Dalton Academy ensemble. "I like how we're both dressed for solidarity purposes."

"Your family pressed charges against Kurt Hummel," Blaine says, looking dazed.

"It wasn't my decision," Thad admits grimly.

Blaine's mouth opens exactly into the shape of a lowercase o.

"Cain took the car out that day," Thad says. "You can imagine Mom and Dad's reactions when he came back with a hole ripped through the side of the car. Mom was so angry that she wanted to pull him out of Dalton for the rest of his junior year, but I managed to convince her otherwise by playing the caring older brother role."

Blaine says, "You were adamant about us not competing today." He nudges his arm, which is still tightly bundled up in its cast. "Even without me lugging this thing around."

"I had reason to be," Thad explains. "I didn't want to go out there unprepared. You know the way the Warblers are. We can't do things without several weeks' notice; we're not like the New Directions…" Thad points toward the stage, where the New Directions are still having their pictures taken with their Sectionals trophy. "Is that him?"

"Who?"

"Kurt?"

Blaine nods, spotting Kurt in his peripheral vision. "That's him."

Thad smiles and says, "He seems nice. And I apologize for everything in advance." His voice falters. "And…I'm really not supposed to be talking to you right now."

"You know what?" Blaine says, grinning widely and stick out his hand for Thad to shake. "Best of luck to your brother."

Thad takes Blaine's hand and shakes firmly. "Best of luck to your friend."

.:|:.

Dave Karofsky walks the halls of McKinley High feeling more powerless than ever.

He fainted. He fucking_ fainted_ back at the hospital. There's no forgiveness for him shooting down from the heavens, he doesn't feel the reconciliatory hand of Jesus extending to rest upon his forehead, and he certainly doesn't see Kurt coming up to him and absolving their differences. Instead, he spots Kurt walking down the hallway, beaming, with his right arm looped around Rachel Berry's shoulders. Dave watches as Rachel extricates herself from Kurt's grasp, giggling. They're mouthing the words to some _song_, and Kurt looks happier than he has in a long time.

But not because of Dave. Never because of Dave.

When Kurt steps past him, boot heels clacking on the linoleum, time stops.

And Dave pushes.

.:|:.

_End of Act I._

.:|:.

**Next up in **_**Bleeding Love**_**: **Things seem to be back to normal in Lima, Ohio: Kurt and Blaine are back to being bosom friends, the Glee club has assumed their role as the victors of Sectionals, and Dave Karofsky is back to his role as McKinley High's bully. As the days pass, rivalries and strains become more evident.

**Question:** Is everyone taking Jane and her cat seriously?

**Review, please! **

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